LIBRARY 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOL.  I 


W.  M  .  TH  ACK  E  RAY. 

a  ~bu.st  In/  TJcvMi.  in  Vit  yaSanaZ  Prrtmit  6aJ7srv. 


THE   LIFE   OF 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE 

THACKERAY 

BY 

LEWIS    MELVILLE 

WITH  PORTRAITS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


IN   TWO   VOLUMES 
VOL.  I 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCIX 


COPYRIGHT    I  899   BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 
VOLUME  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

PREFACE     -  v 

I.     THACKERAY'S  FAMILY  HISTORY                   -  3 

II.     BIRTH  AND    CHILDHOOD  13 

III.  AT  THE  CHARTERHOUSE    -                           -  21 

IV.  AT    CAMBRIDGE  51 
"    V.     IN  GERMANY 61 

VI.  THE    MIDDLE    TEMPLE,    GRUB    STREET, 

AND  PARIS   -  73 

VII.  JOURNALISM  AND  MARRIAGE     -         -         -     91 

VIII.  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  HIS  MARRIED  LIFE          129 

IX.  CLUB  LIFE       -  -  -  137 

X.  MISCELLANEOUS     AUTHORSHIP  —  PUNCH  155 

XI.  NOVELIST  AND  CRITIC  -   183 

XII.  THACKERAY  AND  THE  PUBLIC       -  195 

XIII.  "VANITY  FAIR" 215 

XIV.  "PENDENNIS"— CHARLOTTE  BRONTE          243 
XV.  THACKERAY  AND  PUNCH   -  -        -  257 

XVI.     LECTURES  IN  ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA— 
THE    ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS  — 
"ESMOND" 271 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOLUME  I 

W.  M.  THACKERAY  -  Frontispiece 
FROM  A  BUST  BY  DEVILLE  IN  THE  NATIONAL  PORTRAIT  GALLERY 

FACING  PAGE 

COVER  DESIGN,  "SIMPLE  MELODIES"      -  62 

"PEN  PURSUING  HIS  LAW  STUDIES"    -  74 

ILLUSTRATION  FROM  "  THE  YELLOWPLUSH  PAPERS  "  -                     112 

ILLUSTRATION  FROM  "THE  YELLOWPLUSH  PAPERS"  -      114 

ILLUSTRATION  FROM  "THE  YELLOWPLUSH  PAPERS"  -          -           116 

ILLUSTRATION  FROM  "THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK"  -      122 

COVER  DESIGN,  "  COMIC  TALES  AND  SKETCHES"  -            160 

"SHERRY,  PERHAPS"                                      -  166 

"RuM,  I  HOPE"      -  167 

"  TRACTS,  BY  JOVE  !"      -  -     168 

COVER  DESIGN,  "THE  BOOK  OF  SNOBS"  206 

COVER  DESIGN,  "VANITY  FAIR"        -  -     216 

TAILPIECE  FROM  "VANITY  FAIR"  226 

COVER  DESIGN,  "  THE  HISTORY  OF  PENDENNIS  "   -  -     248 

"AUTHORS'  MISERIES"  272 

LETTER  TO  CAPTAIN  ATKINSON  -      284 

TAILPIECE  FROM  "VANITY  FAIR  "                       -  302 


PREFACE 

THOUGH  it  is  more  than  five-and-thirty  years  since 
his  death,  until  now  there  has  never  been  pub- 
lished a  Life  of  Thackeray  which  has  had  any  pretensions 
to  finality.  Mr.  Theodore  Taylor's  book,  Thackeray,  the 
Humourist  and  the  Man  of  Letters,  was  admittedly  only  a 
stop-gap  biography ;  the  volume  contributed  eight  years 
ago  to  the  "Great  Writers  Series"  by  Mr.  Herman 
Merivale  and  Mr.  Frank  Marzials  can  scarcely  be  regarded 
as  much  more  than  outlining  the  novelist's  career;  while 
Mrs.  Ritchie's  interesting  Biographical  Introductions  are 
little  more  than  material  for  a  full  Life. 

No  member  of  his  family  has  come  forward  as  a 
chronicler.  There  is  a  popular  rumour  to  account  for  the 
unusual  silence.  Thackeray,  so  the  story  runs,  some 
years  before  his  death,  was  so  disgusted  with  an  unduly 
fulsome  biography  he  was  reading  that  he  laid  down  the 
volume,  saying  to  his  daughters,  "Let  there  be  none  of 
this  when  I  go. ' '  They  interpreted  this  remark  literally, 
with  the  result  that  neither  the  members  of  his  family 
nor  his  intimate  friends  have  attempted  to  compile  an 
"official"  biography.  Even  assuming  the  story  be  true, 
I  cannot  think  Thackeray  wished  the  story  of  his  life  to 
remain  unwritten.  I  think  his  only  desire  was  that  the 
truth  should  be  told,  that  all  the  scars  should  be  painted 
in  the  portrait ;  for  he  himself  liked  to  read  of  the  lives 
of  literary  men.  "If  the  secret  history  of  books  could 
be  written,  and  the  author's  private  thoughts  noted  down 


x  preface 

alongside  of  his  story,  how  many  insipid  volumes  would 
become  interesting,  and  dull  tales  excite  the  reader!"  he 
wrote  in  one  of  his  essays. 

His  stories  are  frequently  autobiographical — there  has 
never  lived  an  author  whose  writings  have  been  more 
personal.  "This  is  so  like  print  that  I  think  I  shall 
send  it  to  Punch, ' '  he  said  of  a  letter  he  was  writing  to 
Mrs.  Brookfield ;  and  this  is  true,  in  a  larger  degree,  of 
his  life.  He  used  his  own  experiences  to  a  very  great 
extent,  and  the  reader  knowing  the  author's  life  must 
certainly  find  an  added  pleasure  in  perusing  the  various 
stories. 

His  departure  from  India,  his  arrival  in  England,  his 
early  school-life,  the  Charterhouse  days,  Larkbeare, 
Cambridge,  the  visit  to  Weimar,  Paris,  and  elsewhere, 
his  misfortunes  in  London,  his  Deuceace,  his  life  in  the 
Paris  studios,  the  newspapers  he  was  connected  with, 
the  people  he  met,  the  places  he  visited,  even  his 
illnesses,  are  all  reproduced. 

There  is  no  lack  of  material  for  the  biographer. 
Nearly  every  one  who  knew  Thackeray  has  recorded  his 
or  her  impression  in  a  book  or  magazine-article.  Sir 
William  Hunter  has  devoted  his  attention  to  the  novel- 
ist's ancestors;  Mr.  C.  P.  Johnson  has  outlined  the  early 
years  of  the  literary  career ;  The  History  of  Punch  contains 
much  information  concerning  his  connection  with  that 
journal;  Mr.  Eyre  Crowe's  book  tells  of  his  first  Ameri- 
can voyage,  and  Mr.  Hodder  has  been  the  historian  of 
the  return  visit.  Mrs.  Brookfield  published  in  1887  a 
most  interesting  and  (to  the  biographer)  instructive  Col- 
lection of  Thackeray's  Letters,  1847 — 1855.  Mrs. 
Ritchie  herself,  besides  the  series  of  Introductions  to 
the  Biographical  Edition  of  Thackeray's  Works,  pub- 


preface  xi 

lished  by  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  has  given  us  a 
few  chapters  from  "Some  Unwritten  Memoirs,"  also 
issued  by  the  same  publishers.  From  both  of  these 
works  extracts  have  been  made  in  this  volume.  These, 
with  the  Lives  and  Letters  of  Edward  Fitzgerald,  Lord 
Houghton,  Alfred  Tennyson,  Professor  Aytoun,  Char- 
lotte Bronte,  Mr.  Yates,  and  the  Autobiographies  of 
Mr.  Hollingshead  and  Mr.  Vizetelly,  together  with  in- 
formation gleaned  from  little-known  or  less  available 
sources,  have  enabled  me  to  expand  the  outline  of  his 
life  into  the  present  work. 

My  own  more  personal  acknowledgments  are  due  to 
Miss  Saviile,  for  very  material  assistance  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  work,  and  for  her  kindly  encouragement ; 
to  Mr.  W.  T.  Stevens,  who  has  allowed  me  the  use  of  his 
valuable  collection  of  first  editions  of  Thackeray's  works; 
and  to  Mr.  Arthur  Patchett  Martin,  who,  giving  me  the 
benefit  of  his  extensive  literary  knowledge  and  long 
experience,  has  read  and  revised  these  volumes  in 
manuscript. 

Finally,  I  humbly  claim  for  myself  that,  to  the  best 
of  my  ability,  I  have  endeavoured  to  fill  a  void  in  the 
literary  history  of  the  century,  and  while  therefore  I 
think  no  apology  is  needed  for  presenting  these  volumes 
to  the  public,  I  would  plead  the  great  difficulty  of  the 
task  in  palliation  of  those  errors  of  omission  and  commis- 
sion which  the  reader  may  discover. 

LEWIS  MELVILLE. 


CHAPTER   I 

THACKERAY'S   FAMILY   HISTORY 


CHAPTER   I 

THACKERAY'S    FAMILY   HISTORY 

HISTORY  has  ignored  the  Thackerays  until  nearly 
the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  when  the 
family  records  mention  John  de  Thakwa  as  holding  at 
Hartwich,  in  1336,  a  dwelling-house  and  thirty  acres  of 
land  of  the  Abbot  of  St.  Mary  of  Fountains,  and  in  1361 
William  de  Thackwra,  a  tenant  at  will  of  a  messuage  and 
twenty-one  acres  at  the  same  place.  A  century  after- 
wards Robert  Thackra  kept  the  Grange  of  Brinham,  and 
subsequently  Edward  Thacquarye  held  houses  and  lands 
from  the  Convent. 

Early  in  the  seventeenth  century  Walter  Thackeray, 
first  of  the  name  as  now  spelt,  established  himself  at 
Hampsthwaite,  a  little  village  close  by  the  forest  of 
Knaresborough,  in  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire. 
Here,  through  several  generations,  for  two  hundred 
years,  the  family  lived,  doing  yeoman's  duty,  until  1804, 
when  the  last  of  the  line,  Thomas  Thackeray,  died  child- 
less, seven  years  before  the  novelist  was  born. 

In  1682  Elias  Thackeray  had  gone  southwards  to 
King's  College,  where  he  became  M.A.  in  1709,  and 
two  years  later  was  given  the  rectorship  of  Hawkerswell, 
in  the  Archdeaconry  of  Richmond. 

Probably  at  his  suggestion,  in  January,  1706,  Thomas 
Thackeray,  then  a  boy  of  twelve,  was  sent  from  the 
ancestral  home  at  Hampsthwaite  to  Eton,  where  he  was 

3 


4  William  flDafeepeace 

admitted  on  the  foundation.  Here  he  remained  until 
1711,  when  he  won  a  scholarship  that  took  him  to  King's 
College,  Cambridge,  where  he  qualified  as  B.A.  in  1/15, 
four  years  later  as  M.A.,  and  was  eventually  elected  to 
a  fellowship.  He  returned  to  Eton  as  assistant  master, 
and  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  provostship  of 
King's  in  1744.  In  1746  he  was  appointed  to  the  head- 
mastership  of  Harrow  School,  which,  although  nearly 
two  hundred  years  old,  had  been  almost  ruined  under  a 
"drunken,  disorderly,  idle"  principal.  On  his  arrival, 
there  were  but  thirty-three  boys,  a  number  that  under 
his  able  rule  was  increased  to  a  hundred  and  thirty. 
He  obtained  several  livings;  was  appointed  a  chaplain  to 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales;  and  ultimately  became 
Archdeacon  of  Surrey. 

In  Richard's  History  of  Lynn,  published  in  1812,  a 
letter  dated  1756,  from  Dr.  Edmund  Pyle,  is  inserted, 
having  reference  to  Dr.  Thackeray: 

"Dr.  Thackeray,  who  keeps  a  school  at  Harrow-on- 
the-Hill,  has  one  living  and  fourteen  children;  a  man 
bred  at  Eton,  and  a  great  scholar  in  the  Eton  way,  and 
a  good  one  every  way ;  a  true  Whig,  and  proud  to  be  so 
by  some  special  marks  of  integrity.  He  was  a  candidate 
for  the  headship  of  King's,  and  would  have  beat  all  men 
but  George,  and  George,  too,  if  Sir  Robert  Walpole  had 
not  made  George's  promotion  a  point.  Since  this  disap- 
pointment he  took  the  school  at  Harrow  to  educate  his 
own  and  other  people's  children,  where  he  has  performed 
all  along  with  great  reputation.  The  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester [Hoadley?]  never  saw  this  man  in  his  life,  but 
had  heard  so  much  good  of  him,  that  he  resolved  to 
serve  him  some  way  or  other  if  ever  he  could,  but  said 
nothing  to  anybody.  On  Friday  last,  he  sent  for  this 


Ubacfeerap's  dfamtls  tuston?  5 

Dr.  Thackeray,  and  when  he  came  into  the  room  my  Lord 
gave  him  a  parchment,  and  told  him  he  had  long  heard 
of  his  good  character,  and  long  been  afraid  he  should 
never  be  able  to  give  him  any  serviceable  proof  of  the 
good  opinion  he  had  conceived  of  him ;  that  what  he  had 
put  into  his  hands  was  the  Archdeaconry  of  Surrey, 
which  he  hoped  would  be  acceptable  to  him,  as  he  might 
perform  the  duty  of  it  yearly  at  the  time  of  his  leisure  in 
the  Easter  holidays.  Dr.  Thackeray  was  so  surprised 
and  overcome  with  this  extraordinary  manner  of  doing 
him  a  favour,  that  he  was  very  near  fainting  as  he  was 
giving  him  institution." 

The  doctor  died  in  1760.  He  had  married,  in  1729,  a 
daughter  of  John  Woodward,  of  Butler's  Marston,  War- 
wickshire (another  of  whose  girls  was  the  wife  of  Dr. 
Nicholas  Boscawen,  Canon  of  Windsor),  who  bore  him 
six  sons  and  ten  daughters  during  the  first  twenty  years 
of  their  married  life.  The  lady  died  in  1797,  in  her  nine- 
tieth year.  Of  these  children  Elias  became  Provost  of 
Kings;  another  son  chaplain  at  Saint  Petersburg;  another 
obtained  an  appointment  in  the  Customs,  and  kept  it  for 
forty  years;  while  two  others  studied  medicine  and  prac- 
tised, respectively,  at  Cambridge  and  Windsor. 

For  the  youngest  of  this  family  a  Writership  in  the 
East  India  Company's  Service  was  obtained.  This  was 
William  Makepeace  (the  curious  name  is  said  to  be 
derived  from  a  member  of  the  family  who  suffered  at  the 
stake  for  his  faith  in  the  good  old  days),  the  grandfather 
of  the  author.  After  a  preliminary  training  in  book-keep- 
ing, in  which  it  was  necessary  to  be  thoroughly  grounded 
before  entering  the  service,  he  sailed  in  February,  1746, 
in  the  Lord  Camden  for  Calcutta.  Placed  in  the  Secre- 
tary's office,  he  at  once  attracted  the  notice  of  his 


6  TIGlUliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfceras 

superiors,  and  within  twelve  months  of  his  arrival  was 
promoted  to  be  assistant-treasurer  or  cash-keeper  under 
the  new  governor,  Verelst,  at  a  salary  of  one  thousand 
one  hundred  and  fifty-eight  rupees,  or  one  hundred  and 
forty-five  pounds,  while  most  of  the  other  Writers  only 
received  eighty  pounds.  In  1771  he  was  appointed 
Factor  and  Fourth  in  Council  at  Dacca,  where  he  pro- 
ceeded to  take  up  his  residence  with  the  two  sisters  who 
had  come  to  him  from  home.  Both  these  ladies  married 
during  their  stay  in  India — the  elder,  Jane,  to  Major 
James  Rennel,  a  celebrated  geographer;  the  younger, 
Henrietta,  to  James  Harris,  the  Chief  of  Dacca,  and  the 
head  of  the  Company's  Service  in  Eastern  Bengal.* 

Under  Warren  Hastings  William  Makepeace  was 
made  a  Chief  of  the  frontier  province  of  Sylhet,  and  in 
1774  returned  as  Third  in  Council  to  Dacca,  where  his 
sister  Jane  and  her  husband  were  still  living.  A  year 
later  he  fell  in  love  with  a  very  charming  girl,  Amelia, 
the  daughter  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  Richmond  Webb,  a 
descendant  of  the  famous  victor  of  Weynendal,  who  is  so 
well  portrayed  in  Esmond.  The  young  couple  (William 
Makepeace  was  six-and-twenty,  and  Miss  Webb  eighteen) 
were  married  at  St.  John's  Cathedral,  Calcutta,  on  Jan- 
uary 31,  1776,  and  sailed  for  England  immediately. 
The  young  civil  servant  had  been  absent  for  nine  and  a 
half  years,  during  which  time  he  had  amassed  a  fortune 
sufficient  to  enable  him  to  purchase  a  small  estate  at 
Hadley,  near  Chippine  Barnet,  where  for  the  rest  of  his 
days  he  led  a  simple,  hospitable  country  life.  His  wife 

*When  James  Harris  died,  it  was  found  that  his  extravagance  had 
made  deep  inroads  into  his  fortune ;  but  enough  was  left  for  his 
widow  to  live  comfortably,  and  in  1790  she  settled  down  at  Hadley, 
near  her  brother.  Of  her  sons,  two  distinguished  themselves  at 
Balliol  College,  several  entered  the  Army  and  Navy,  and  at  least  one 
went  to  India. 


's  jfamilp  Distort  7 

bore  him  twelve  children,  of  whom  eleven  lived.  She 
died  in  1810,  at  the  age  of  fifty-three,  and  was  followed 
to  the  grave  three  years  later  by  her  husband  (who  was 
then  in  his  sixty-fifth  year),  that  is,  more  than  three 
years  before  the  boy  Thackeray  was  sent  to  England. 

Of  the  eleven  children  of  this  marriage,  no  less  than 
nine  went  to  the  East.  Three  sons  entered  the  Madras 
Civil  Service,  a  fourth  the  Bengal  Civil  Service,  and  a 
fifth  the  Bengal  Army.  The  sixth,  who  died  in  1846, 
became  a  barrister  at  Calcutta,  but,  obtaining  little  prac- 
tice, wrote  leading  articles  for  the  Englishman,  and 
probably  also  for  other  newspapers.  Five  of  the  brothers 
died  in  India,  the  sixth  on  a  voyage  to  the  Cape  for  the 
recovery  of  his  health.  Two  of  the  daughters  married 
Bengal  civilians,  and  a  third  the  Attorney-General  of 
Ceylon.  The  fourth  daughter  remained  in  England. 
Francis,  another  son,  entered  the  Church,  and  lived 
among  his  books  in  a  Hertfordshire  parish,  where  he 
wrote  on  the  State  of  Ancient  Britons  under  the  Roman 
Emperors,  and  produced  a  History  of  the  Earl  of 
Chatham,  that  was  quoted  by  Carlyle  in  Frederick  the 
Great  and  reviewed  by  Lord  Macaulay. 

The  eldest  son,  William  Makepeace,  was  born  in 
1778,  and  in  his  twentieth  year  went  to  Madras  as  a 
Writer.  He  was  the  first  Madras  civilian  who  earned 
a  reward  under  the  rules  of  1797  which  encouraged  the 
study  of  Oriental  languages.  For  proficiency  in  Telugu 
he  received  a  government  grant  equivalent  to  about 
£400,  and  a  good  appointment.  His  rise  was  rapid. 
He  was  appointed  by  Clive,  Translator  to  the  Govern- 
ment, then  assistant  to  Sir  Thomas  Munro,  and  was  the 
first  judge  of  the  Court  established  at  Masulipatam.  In 
1806  he  became  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Revenue,  and 


TISiilliam  flDaftepeace  Ubacfeeras 

four  years  later  Chief  Secretary  to  the  Madras  Govern- 
ment. In  1813  he  returned  to  England  for  the  recovery 
of  his  health,  and  the  Court  of  Directors  mentioned  his 
services  in  a  despatch.  He  came  back  to  India  in  1816; 
was  appointed  a  provisional  member  of  Council;  took 
his  seat  on  June  10,  1820;  and  three  days  after  became 
also  President  of  the  Board  of  Revenue.  But  the  cli- 
mate had  undermined  his  health,  and  in  November,  1822, 
a  sea-voyage  to  the  Cape  was  ordered.  He  died  upon  the 
voyage  on  January  n,  1823,  in  his  forty-sixth  year. 

Webb  Thackeray,  who  went  out  to  Madras  as  a 
Writer  in  1806,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  died  within 
a  year. 

St.  John  Thackeray,  born  in  1791,  was  one  of  the 
first  civilians  sent  out  by  the  East  India  College  that 
eventually  grew  into  Haileybury.  He  spent  three  years 
in  the  Board  of  Revenue,  five  years  in  the  diplomatic 
department,  and  was  killed  in  1824  at  Kittur  Fort,  where, 
hoping  to  bring  the  insurgents  to  terms,  he  advanced, 
without  a  flag  of  truce,  and  was  fired  upon. 

Lieutenant  Thomas  Thackeray,  of  the  Bengal  army, 
was  killed  in  an  action  in  the  Nepal  War  during  1814. 
He  was  a  brave  man,  and  his  death  called  forth  enthusi- 
astic mention  in  despatches  from  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  and  the  Governor-General. 

Richmond  Thackeray,  the  second  son,  and  father  of 
the  novelist,  was  born  either  on  September  1 ,  1781,  or 
October  21,  1782.*  He  was  sent  to  Eton  at  the  age  of 
ten,  and  remained  there  until  1796,  when  he  underwent 

*Sir  William  Hunter  has  pointed  out  that  the  tombstone  says 
Richmond  Thackeray  died  on  September  13,  1815,  aged  thirty-two 
years,  ten  months,  and  twenty-three  days,  which  would  make  the 
birthday  October  21,  1782,  instead  of  September  i,  1781,  as  stated  in 
the  Family  Book  of  the  Thackerays. 


's  Jfamfls  Distort  ^ 

the  usual  training  before  proceeding  to  Bengal,  where  he 
had  been  nominated  to  a  Writership  in  the  Civil  Service. 
He  arrived  at  Calcutta  on  October  27,  1/98 — the  year  in 
which  Lord  Wellesley  undertook  the  government — but 
was  almost  immediately  prostrated  by  fever,  and  was 
sent  on  a  voyage  to  Madras  for  the  recovery  of  his 
health.  On  his  return  he  studied  in  the  College  of  Fort 
William,  and,  as  a  reward  for  his  proficiency  in  Arabic 
and  Persian,  was  appointed  Collector  of  Midnapir. 

In  1802  he  was  joined  by  his  two  sisters,  Emily  and 
Augusta,  both  of  whom  married  very  shortly  after  their 
arrival.  Augusta  was  won  by  a  great  friend  of  her 
brother,  Mr.  Elliot,  and  Emily  (who  died  in  India)  by 
John  Talbot  Shakespear.  Of  the  latter  alliance  came 
nine  children,  the  eldest  of  whom,  Colonel  John  Dowdes- 
well  Shakespear,  seems  to  have  some  claim  to  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  men  who  sat  for  Colonel  New- 
come.  A  daughter  Augusta  married  General  Sir  John 
Low.  A  younger  son  was  Colonel  Sir  Richmond 
Shakespear,  who  became  Agent  to  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral for  Central  India,  and  was  appointed  by  Lord  Can- 
ning to  the  Chief  Commissionership  of  Mysore,  which 
post  he  had  just  accepted  when  death  terminated  his 
career.  The  novelist  made  appreciative  reference  to  him 
in  a  Roundabout  Paper: 

"  'Can  I  do  anything  for  you?'  I  remember  the  kind 
fellow  asking.  He  was  always  asking  that  question:  of 
all  kinsmen;  of  all  widows  and  orphans;  of  all  the  poor; 
of  young  men  who  might  need  his  purse  or  his  service. 
I  saw  a  young  officer  yesterday  to  whom  the  first  words 
Sir  Richmond  Shakespear  wrote  on  his  arrival  in  India 
were,  'Can  I  do  anything  for  you?'  His  purse  was  at 
the  command  of  all.  His  kind  hand  was  always  open. 


io          William  flDafeepeace 

It  was  a  gracious  fate  which  sent  him  to  rescue  widows 
and  captives.  Where  could  they  have  had  a  champion 
more  chivalrous,  a  protector  more  loving  and  tender?" 
To  return  to  Richmond  Thackeray.  He  became  Col- 
lector of  Birbhum  in  1803,  and  three  years  later  was 
appointed  Judge  of  Ramgarh.  In  1807  he  was  promoted 
to  the  Secretaryship  of  the  Bengal  Board  of  Revenue, 
and  from  this  time,  with  the  exception  of  some  months 
during  which  he  acted  as  Judge  of  Midnapir,  he 
remained  in  the  capital,  where,  apart  from  his  official 
position,  he  became  a  noted  personage  in  the  little  social 
world.  Here  he  met  and  married  Anne  Becher,  a  beau- 
tiful young  girl,  and  a  connexion  of  an  old  Bengal  civil- 
ian family,  of  whom  perhaps  the  most  distinguished 
member  was  Richard  Becher,  who  held  high  office  during 
the  administration  of  Lord  Clive.  Her  father,  John 
Harman  Becher,  whose  arrival  in  Calcutta  as  a  Writer  is 
dated  1779,  after  a  long  illness,  or  series  of  illnesses,  had 
died  in  1800  while  she  was  a  child  of  seven, 


CHAPTER   II 
BIRTH   AND   CHILDHOOD 


CHAPTER   II 

BIRTH   AND    CHILDHOOD 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  was 
born  at  Calcutta,  July  18,  1811.  In  the  follow- 
ing December  Richmond  Thackeray  was  promoted  to 
the  Collectorship  of  the  Calcutta  districts,  the  most 
important  appointment  in  the  Governor's  gift.  The 
young  couple  resided  at  the  official  Collector's  house  at 
Alipur  (which  enabled  them  to  continue  their  intercourse 
with  the  society  of  the  capital)  until  the  husband's  death. 
Then  the  widow,  only  three-and-twenty,  and  her  four- 
year-old  son,  stayed  with  relatives  in  India  until,  in 
1817,  the  boy  was  sent  to  England  to  be  educated. 

Thackeray  never  forgot  this  parting,  and  referred  to  it 
five-and-forty  years  after  in  a  Roundabout  Paper: 

"In  one  of  the  stories  by  the  present  writer,  a  man  is 
described  tottering  'up  the  steps  of  the  ghaut,'  having 
just  parted  with  his  child,  whom  he  is  despatching  to 
England  from  India.  I  wrote  this,  remembering  in  long, 
long  distant  days,  such  a  ghaut,  or  river-stair,  at  Cal- 
cutta; and  a  day  when,  down  those  steps,  to  a  boat 
which  was  in  waiting,  came  two  children,  whose  mothers 
remained  on  the  shore."  The  other  child  was  Rich- 
mond Shakespear. 

"When  I  first  saw  England  she  was  in  mourning  for 
the  young  Princess  Charlotte  [died  November  6,  1817], 
the  hope  of  the  Empire,"  Thackeray  himself  has  writ- 
is 


14          "CClilliam  flDafeepeace  tlbacfeerag 

ten.  "I  came  from  India  as  a  child,  and  our  ship  touched 
at  an  island  on  the  way  home,  where  my  black  servant 
took  me  a  long  walk  over  rocks  and  hills  until  we  reached 
a  garden,  where  we  saw  a  man  walking.  'That  is  he,' 
said  the  black  man ;  'that  is  Bonaparte!  He  eats  three 
sheep  every  day,  and  all  the  little  children  he  can  lay 
hands  on!'  There  were  people  in  the  British  domin- 
ions besides  that  poor  Calcutta  serving-man,  of  an  equal 
horror  of  the  Corsican  ogre. 

"With  the  same  childish  attendant  I  remember  peep- 
ing through  the  colonnade  at  Carlton  House,  and  seeing 
the  abode  of  the  great  Prince  Regent.  I  can  yet  see  the 
guards  pacing  before  the  gates  of  the  Palace.  The  pal- 
ace! What  palace?  The  palace  exists  no  more  than 
the  palace  of  Nebuchadnezzar.  It  is  but  a  name 
now." 

In  England,  he  stayed  partly  with  his  grand-uncle 
Moore  at  the  Manor  House  at  Hadley,  near  Chipping 
Barnet,  and  partly  at  Chiswick  with  an  aunt,  Mrs. 
Ritchie,  from  whose  house  and  probably  under  whose 
dictation  on  February  12,  1818,  he  wrote  his  first 
recorded  letter  to  his  "Mama":  "I  hope  you  are  quite 
well.  I  have  given  my  dear  Grandmamma  a  kiss.  My 
Aunt  Ritchie  is  very  good  to  me.  I  like  Chiswick,  there 
are  so  many  good  boys  to  play  with.  St.  James's  Park 
is  a  very  fine  place.  St.  Paul's  Church,  too,  I  like 
very  much.  It  is  a  finer  place  than  I  expected.  I  hope 
Captain  Smyth  is  well ;  give  my  love  to  him  and  tell  him 
he  must  bring  you  home  to  your  affectionate  little  son, 
William  Thackeray."  Captain  Carmichael  Smyth  was 
the  second  husband  of  his  mother. 

One  amusing  anecdote  of  this  time  has  been  preserved. 
His  aunt  one  day  found  that  her  husband's  hat  fitted 


JBfrtb  anfc  CbU&boo&  15 

the  little  boy,  and  she  was  so  astonished,  and  perhaps 
alarmed,  that  she  at  once  took  him  to  Sir  Charles  Clark, 
the  eminent  physician,  who,  smiling,  told  her  not  to  be 
afraid:  "He  has  a  large  head,  but  there's  a  good  deal  in 
it."  No  doubt  in  after  years  the  doctor  was  much  sur- 
prised to  find  how  much  was  in  that  head.  At  his  death 
his  brain  weighed  nearly  fifty-eight  and  a  half  ounces. 

At  a  very  early  age  he  was  sent  to  a  school  in  Chis- 
wick  Mall,  of  which,  it  is  suggested,  he  wrote  in  the 
opening  chapters  of  Vanity  Fair  when  he  described  Miss 
Pinkerton's  establishment.  The  school  was  kept  by  Dr. 
Turner,  a  distant  relative  of  the  Thackerays,  and  Mrs. 
Ritchie  remembers  it  was  said  in  the  family  that  when 
the  headmaster  used  to  read  the  Ten  Commandments  of 
a  Sunday  to  his  boys,  his  wife  and  several  members  of 
the  congregation  had  been  heard  to  declare  that  to  hear 
his  resounding  tones  reminded  them  of  Mount  Sinai 
itself.  The  little  boy  was  not  happy  there.  Indeed, 
soon  after  he  came  he  made  an  attempt  to  run  away, 
and,  in  later  years,  when  driving  to  Richmond  or  else- 
where, would  show  the  corner  of  the  lane  by  Hammer- 
smith Road  where,  frightened,  he  turned  back  and  arrived 
safely  at  the  school,  no  one  being  any  the  wiser. 

As  years  went  by,  however,  the  unpleasant  recollec- 
tions faded,  and  while  at  Charterhouse  he  would  go  on 
half-holidays  to  his  old  school,  and  play  chess  with  Mrs. 
Turner  and  whist  with  the  young  ladies,  until,  wishing 
to  enact  a  part  in  private  theatricals,  he  borrowed  a  bar- 
rister's wig  from  the  Doctor  (who  had  been  at  the  bar 
before  he  went  into  the  Church),  and,  losing  it,  did  not 
venture  to  call  at  Chiswick  for  some  time.  He  was  still 
at  the  Chiswick  school  when  his  mother  and  his  step- 
father came  home  in  1822.  "He  had  a  perfect  memory 


16          TKauitam  flDafcepeace  Ubacfceras 

of  me,"  Mrs.  Smyth  has  since  said;  "he  could  not 
speak,  but  kissed  me,  and  looked  at  me  again  and  again." 

Thackeray  and  his  step-father  became  excellent 
friends;  and  so  admirable  a  man  was  the  Major  that 
those  who  knew  him  insist  that  the  finest  of  all  English 
gentlemen — that  preux  chevalier  Colonel  Newcome — was 
drawn  from  him.  Thackeray  loved  his  mother  deeply, 
and  was  as  proud  of  her  as  she,  in  the  time  to  come,  was 
of  him.  In  his  letters  are  frequent  affectionate  refer- 
ences to  her,  and  his  only  amusing  complaint  was  that 
"in  her  imperial  manner"  she  would  always  endeavour 
to  make  his  friends  understand  that  her  son  was  "the 
divinest  creature  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Smyth  had  a  salon  in  Paris  some  thirty  years 
later. 

She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  "a  daughter  of  the 
gods,  divinely  tall, ' '  and,  as  became  an  Englishwoman  of 
social  position  in  Paris,  with  an  inborn  taste  in  dress  of 
an  unconventional  kind;  for  we  are  told  she  "used 
to  walk  out  in  a  red  merino  cloak,  trimmed  with  ermine, 
which  gave  her  the  air  of  a  retired  empress  wearing  out 
her  robes."  Furthermore,  "she  was  a  woman  of  strong 
feeling,  somewhat  imperious,  with  a  passionate  love  for 
little  children,  and  with  extraordinary  sympathy  and 
enthusiasm  for  any  one  in  trouble.  How  benevolently 
she  used  to  look  round  the  room  at  her  many  protege's 
with  her  beautiful  grey  eyes!"* 

Anthony  Trollope,  in  his  more  matter-of-fact,  prosaic 
fashion,  also  described  this  lady.  "All  who  knew  Wil- 
liam Makepeace,  remember  his  mother  well,  a  handsome, 
spare,  grey-headed  lady,  whom  Thackeray  treated  with 
a  courtly  deference  as  well  as  constant  affection." 

*  Chapters  from  some  unwritten  memoirs. 


JSirtb  anfc  Cbflfcboofc  17 

"There  was,  however,  something  of  discrepancy 
between  them  as  to  matters  of  religion,"  he  continued. 
"Mrs.  Carmichael  Smyth  was  disposed  to  the  somewhat 
austere  observance  of  the  evangelical  section  of  the 
Church.  Such,  certainly,  never  became  the  case  with 
her  son.  There  was  disagreement  on  the  subject  and 
probably  unhappiness  at  intervals,  but  never,  I  think, 
quarrelling.  Thackeray's  house  was  his  mother's  home 
whenever  she  pleased,  and  the  home  also  of  his  step- 
father," 


CHAPTER   III 
AT  THE   CHARTERHOUSE 


CHAPTER    III 

AT   THE   CHARTERHOUSE 

IN  August,  1822,  Major  Smyth,  with  his  wife,  took  up 
his  residence  at  Addiscombe,  where  he  had  been 
appointed  Governor,  and  the  boy,  William  Makepeace, 
was  sent  to  the  Charterhouse  School,  where  at  least  two 
of  the  English  Humorists,  Addison  and  Steele,  were 
educated. 

It  was  a  bad  time  for  a  little  boy  to  enter  the  school, 
for  just  then  Dr.  Russell  was  trying  his  great  experiment 
of  offering  education  in  a  famous  school  at  a  very  cheap 
rate.  This  was  effected  by  what  was  called  the 
"Madras"  or  "Bell"  system,  in  which,  to  a  great  extent, 
the  school  teaches  itself.  Russell  never  had  more  than 
seven  assistant  masters,  and  the  lower  forms  were  taught 
by  "praepositi" — boys  of  a  form  just  below  the  Sixth 
(or,  as  Russell  called  it,  the  first)  which  bore  the  name 
of  the  "Emeriti."  The  reduction  of  fees  was  followed 
by  a  great  increase  in  the  number  of  boys.  Far  more 
pupils  were  accepted  than  could  be  comfortably  accom- 
modated, and  the  natural  result  was  overcrowded  class- 
rooms and  packed  boarding-houses.  I  have  read  of  his 
first  interview  with  the  headmaster:  "Take  that  boy  and 
his  box,"  were  the  imperious  directions  thundered  by  Dr. 
Crushall  in  his  big,  brassy  voice  to  the  school  janitor,  as 
though  sentencing  a  culprit  for  execution,  "to  Mrs. 
Jones"  [the  matron  of  the  boarding-house],  "and  make 


22          Milltam  flDafeepeace 

my  compliments  to  Mr.  Smiler"  [then  junior  master] 
"and  tell  him  the  boy  knows  nothing  and  will  just  do 
for  the  lowest  form."  Not  a  pleasant  introduction  to 
public-school  life  for  a  timid  and  sensitive  boy,  cer- 
tainly. And  Thackeray  cordially  detested  Doctor  Rus- 
sell, and  took  him  off  in  Pendennis. 

"Pendennis,  sir,"  he  makes  the  Doctor  say,  "your 
idleness  is  incorrigible,  and  your  stupidity  beyond 
example.  You  are  a  disgrace  to  your  school,  and  to 
your  family,  and  I  have  no  doubt  will  prove  so  in  after- 
life to  your  country.  If  that  vice,  sir,  which  is  described 
to  us  as  the  root  of  all  evil,  be  really  what  moralists  have 
represented  (and  I  have  no  doubt  of  the  correctness  of 
their  opinion),  for  what  a  prodigious  quantity  of  future 
crime  and  wickedness  are  you,  unhappy  boy,  laying  the 
seed!  Miserable  trifler!  A  boy  who  construes  d e  and, 
instead  of  d  e  but,  at  sixteen  years  of  age  is  guilty  not 
merely  of  folly  and  ignorance,  and  dullness  inconceiv- 
able, but  of  crime,  of  deadly  crime,  of  filial  ingratitude, 
which  I  tremble  to  contemplate.  A  boy,  sir,  who  does 
not  learn  his  Greek  play  cheats  the  parent  who  spends 
money  for  his  education.  A  boy  who  cheats  his  parents 
is  not  very  far  from  robbing  or  forging  upon  his  neigh- 
bour. A  man  who  forges  on  his  neighbour  pays  the 
penalty  of  his  crime  at  the  gallows.  And  it  is  not  such 
a  one  that  I  pity  (for  he  will  be  deservedly  cut  off) ;  but 
his  maddened  and  heart-broken  parents,  who  are  driven 
to  a  premature  grave  by  his  crimes,  or  if  they  live,  drag 
on  a  wretched  and  dishonoured  old  age.  Go  on,  sir, 
and  I  warn  you  that  the  very  next  mistake  that  you 
make  shall  subject  you  to  the  punishment  of  the  rod!" 

But  he  lets  the  Doctor  explain  himself  to  Major 
Pendennis:  "He  is  a  very  good  boy,  rather  idle  and 


Ht  tbe  Gbarterbouse  23 

unenergetic,  but  he  is  a  very  honest  gentlemanlike  little 
fellow,  though  I  can't  get  him  to  construe  as  I  wish." 

Thackeray  was  at  first  a  boarder  in  Mr.  Penny's 
house  in  Wilderness  Row,  Clerkenwell  Road,  until  the 
middle  of  1825,  when  he  became  a  day  boy  and  stayed 
with  Mrs.  Boyes,  a  lady  who  took  in  boys  belonging 
both  to  the  Charterhouse  and  the  Merchant  Taylor's 
Schools. 

Among  his  schoolfellows  of  1825  were  Edmund 
Lushington,  the  captain  of  the  school ;  Francis  Edgworth 
and  Charles  Freshwater,  monitors;  George  and  Richard 
Venables,  John  Murray,  and  Martin  Tupper,  in  the  First 
Form ;  Ralfe  Bernal  (afterwards  Bernal  Osborne),  Paken- 
ham  Edgworth,  Francis  Beaumont,  and  John  Stewart 
Horner  in  the  Second ;  in  the  Third,  besides  Thackeray 
himself,  James  Reynolds  Young;  and  in  the  Fourth, 
Henry  George  Liddell.  Henry  Ray  Freshwater  was  in 
the  Seventh ;  Richmond  Shakspear  and  Alfred  Gatty  in 
the  Eighth;  and  in  the  Twelfth,  just  entering  the 
school,  John  Leech  and  Alfred  Montgomery.  Other 
contemporaries,  whose  forms  I  cannot  ascertain,  were 
George  Shakespear,  George  Lock,  Robert  Curzon,  J.  F. 
Boyes,  Eubank,  Carne,  Stoddart,  Garden,  and  Poynter. 

Mrs.  Ritchie,  Mr.  Merivale,  and  many  others  have 
declared  that  Thackeray  hated  the  school  as  long  he  was 
there,  and  in  support  of  their  statement  they  quote  a 
part  of  one  of  his  letters.  "I  really  think  I  am  becom- 
ing terribly  industrious,  though  I  can't  get  Dr.  Russell 
to  think  so.  It  is  so  hard,  when  you  endeavour  to  work 
hard,  to  find  your  attempts  nipped  in  the  bud. 
There  are  but  370  in  the  school.  I  wish. there  were  only 
369."  But  I  am  inclined  to  think,  with  Mr.  Davies, 
that  more  pathos  has  been  extracted  from  that  passage 


24          William  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

than  perhaps  it  really  bears.  It  was  written  in  1828, 
when  Thackeray  was  second  monitor  [James  Young  was 
the  first]  in  Day-boys.  He  was  a  big  fellow,  just  going 
to  Cambridge,  and  was  probably  anxious  to  have  done 
with  his  school-days.  No  doubt  he  disliked  the  head- 
master, and  no  doubt  also  he  was  unhappy  at  first  in  the 
great  school — perhaps  most  of  the  time  he  was  in  Mr. 
Penny's  house;  but  I  think  he  was  more  contented  dur- 
ing his  stay  at  Mrs.  Boyes'.  Certainly  the  numberless 
parodies,  poems,  and  caricatures  he  wrote  and  drew  do 
not  suggest  unhappiness  in  the  schoolboy,  and  his  letters 
generally  are  not  by  any  means  dismal  in  tone.  He 
read  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on;  he  acted 
when  he  had  the  chance;  he  debated — "We  are  going  to 
have  a  debate  to-morrow  night  on  'The  Expediency  of 
a  Standing  Army. '  We  have  not  yet  settled  the  sides 
which  we  shall  take  in  this  important  question";  he 
drew — "His  drawings  are  wonderful,"  said  his  mother; 
and  he  felt  the  inclination  to  write — "I  have  not  yet 
drawn  out  a  plan  for  my  stories,  but  certain  germs  thereof 
are  yet  budding  in  my  mind,  which  I  hope  by  assiduous 
application  will  flourish  yet  and  bring  forth  fruit."  "I 
always  feel  as  if  I  were  at  home  when  I  am  writing,"  he 
said  in  a  letter,  in  which  he  apologizes  for  writing  so 
much  every  day. 

At  least  three  of  his  schoolfellows  have  recorded  their 
recollections.  Here  is  Dr.  Liddell's  letter,  inserted  by 
Mr.  Davies  in  his  interesting  article  on  Thackeray  in  the 
Grey  friars. 

"The  Doctor  inserted  a  Form  between  the  VI.  and  V. 
(or,  as  he  would  say,  First  and  Second),  which  he  called 
the  Emeriti,  consisting  of  those  boys  who  had  served 
their  time  in  the  lower  Forms  and  were  entitled  to  be 


Bt  tbe  Cbarterbouse  25 

placed  in  the  VI.  as  vacancies  occurred.  But  before 
joining  the  Emeriti  we  were  obliged  to  learn  all  the  odes 
and  epodes  of  Horace  by  heart,  and  to  translate  them 
without  book,  and  to  answer  all  questions,  grammatical, 
geographical,  and  historical,  that  arose  out  of  the  book. 
Having  achieved  this  task,  we  passed  into  the  Emeriti, 
and  were  supposed  to  learn  the  same  lessons  as  the  VI. 
We  sat  by  and  were  expected  to  drink  in  the  wisdom  of 
the  Head  Form,  but  seldom  were  called  on  to  have  our 
diligence  or  attention  tested.  I  need  hardly  say  we  did 
not  trouble  ourselves  to  prepare  the  lessons;  and  when, 
on  rare  occasions,  it  occurred  to  the  Doctor  to  'put  us 
on,'  great  was  our  consternation,  grievous  the  ignorance 
displayed,  and  vehement  the  wrath  of  the  master.  I 
cannot  remember  whether  it  was  in  this  curious  Form 
(between  VI.  and  V.,  or  in  the  Form  below)  that  I  con- 
stantly sat  next  to  Thackeray  in  school.  It  must,  I 
think,  have  been  the  Form  below  (the  V.):  for  he  was 
very  lazy  in  school-work,  and  I  cannot  think  he  ever 
exerted  himself  sufficiently  to  grapple  with  the  Horace 
so  as  to  rise  into  the  Emeriti.  In  whichever  Form  it 
was,  I  recollect  that  we  spent  much — most — of  our  time 
in  drawing.  His  handiwork  was  very  superior  to  mine, 
and  his  humour  exhibited  itself  at  -that  time  in  burlesque 
representations  and  scenes  from  Shakespeare.  I  remem- 
ber one — Macbeth  as  a  butcher — brandishing  two  blood- 
reeking  knives,  and  Lady  Macbeth  as  the  butcher's  wife 
clapping  him  on  the  shoulder  to  encourage  him  in  his 
bloody  work." 

In  after  life,  Thackeray  accused  the  Dean  of  ruining 
his  chance  of  scholarship  by  doing  his  verses  for  him  ; 
but,  as  Mr.  Davies  remarks,  there  is  little  trace  of  Lid- 
dell's  hand  in  the  Latin  Sapphics,  a  fac-simile  of  the  MS. 


26          William  /iDafcepeace  Ubacfcerap 

of  which  is  given  in  the  Greyfriars,  nor  is  there  any 
evidence  of  divided  authorship  in  the  Holyday  Song, 
August  i,  1826,  some  verses  of  which  I  reprint  in  this 
chapter. 

In  1822  Thackeray  was  in  the  Tenth  Form,  in  1823 
in  the  Seventh,  in  the  next  year  in  the  Sixth,  and  the 
year  after  in  the  Third.  The  Blue  Book  of  May,  1826, 
shows  him  in  the  Second  (or  Fifth)  with  Henry  George 
Liddell  next,  and  that  of  the  following  May  in  the  First 
(or  Sixth)  Form.  He  seems  to  have  jumped  the 
"Emeriti." 

"But,  it  so  happens,  that  same  year,  1826-7,  was  the 
beginning  of  the  end,  and  the  school  ran  down  very  fast 
in  numbers,"  Mr.  Davies  (the  Charterhouse  Gold  Medal- 
ist for  1864)  has  explained.  "It  was  perhaps  force 
majeure  which  pushed  Thackeray  up  to  that  exalted 
position  without  the  ordeal  of  the  odes  and  epodes. 
Nay,  more:  Thackeray's  copy  of  Horace  (the  writer's 
possession)  lies  on  the  table  as  he  writes,  and  if  it  was 
the  same  copy  which  should  have  been  the  open  sesame 
to  the  'Emeriti,'  then  it  may  be  safely  said  that  no  odes 
were  ever  learnt  by  heart  out  of  it.  It  is  clean,  beauti- 
fully clean,  unthumbed,  unsoiled  —  what  second-hand 
booksellers  describe  as  'in  fine  condition.' 

Read  what  some  of  his  contemporaries  have  written 
of  him. 

"It  was  when  he  was  between  thirteen  and  fifteen  and 
a  half  that  I  knew  Thackeray  best,"  Mr.  J.  F.  Boyes 
has  written  in  the  very  interesting  article  Thackeray  and 
His  Schooldays,  printed  in  the  Cornhill Magazine  in  1865. 
"He  was  then  eminently  good-tempered  to  all,  espe- 
cially the  younger  boys,  and  nothing  of  a  tyrant  or  bully. 
Instead  of  a  blow  or  a  threat,  I  can  just  hear  him  saying 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbouse  27 

to  one  of  them:  'Hooky'  (a  soubriquet  of  a  son  of 
the  late  Bishop  Carr,  of  Bombay),  'go  up  and  fetch  me 
a  vol.  of  Ivanhoe  out  of  my  drawer,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low ;  in  the  same  drawer  you  will  perhaps  find  a  penny, 
which  you  may  take  for  yourself.'  The  penny  was, 
indeed,  rather  problematical,  but  still  realized  sufficiently 
often  to  produce  excitement  in  the  mind  of  the  youth 
thus  addressed,  and  would  make  the  service  a  willing 
one.  When  disappointed  it  was  more  than  probable 
that  the  victim  would  call  Thackeray  a  'great  snob,'  for 
misleading  him,  a  title  for  which  the  only  vengeance 
would  be  a  humourous  and  benignant  smile. 

"In  the  two  or  three  years  I  am  recording  I  scarcely 
ever  saw  Thackeray  seriously  angry,  or  even  his  brow 
wrinkled  with  a  frown.  He  has  been  called  a  cynic:  it 
is  doubtful  if  a  real  cynic  could  ever  be  manufactured 
out  of  a  boy  who  had  such  powers  as  he  had  of  sarcasm, 
and  who  used  them  so  little  unkindly. 

"Thackeray  had  nearly  all  the  materials  that  usually 
go  to  the  making  of  a  first-rate  classical  scholar.  He 
had  wonderful  memory,  an  absolute  faculty  of  imitation ; 
he  had  the  power  of  acquiring  language,  and 
an  intense  admiration  of  the  beautiful.  He  got  to  love 
his  Horace,  .  .  .  but  never  was  a  highly  classical 
scholar. 

"He  had  no  school  industry.  No  one  in  those  early 
days  could  have  believed  that  there  was  much  work  in 
him,  or  that  he  would  ever  rise  to  the  top  of  any  tree  by 
climbing. 

"His  beau-ideal  was  the  serious  and  sublime;  he  was 
too  familiar  with,  too  much  a  master  of,  the  humourous 
to  think  as  much  of  that  mastery  as  his  admirers  did. 
I  have  heard  him  speak  in  terms  of  homage  to  the  genius 


28          William  /IDafcepeace  Ubacfceras 

of  Keats  that  he  would  not  have  vouchsafed  to  the  whole 
tribe  of  humourists. 

"A  rosy-faced  boy,  with  dark  curling  hair  and  a 
quick,  intelligent  eye,  ever  twinkling  with  humour 
and  good-humour.  He  was  stout  and  broad-set,  and 
gave  no  promise  of  the  stature  which  he  afterwards 
reached.  It  was  -during  a  short  but  severe  illness,  just 
before  he  left  school,  that  he  grew  rapidly,  leaving  his 
sick-bed  certainly  a  good  many  inches  taller  than  he  was 
when  he  entered  it,  and  heading  at  once  nearly  all  his 
contemporaries.  .  .  .  For  the  usual  schoolboy 
sports  and  games  Thackeray  had  no  taste  or  passion 
whatever,  any  more  than  in  after-life  for  those  field  sports 
which  seem  to  have  been  the  delight  of  his  fellow- 
humourist  and  school-fellow,  Leech. 

"Such  amusement  would  have  come  probably  next 
to  Euclid  and  Algebra  in  his  list  of  dislikes.  But  he 
was  by  no  means  what  men  of  genius  are  said  to  have 
been  in  their  youth — disposed  to  isolation  or  solitary 
musing.  For  a  non-playing  boy  he  was  wonderfully 
social,  full  of  vivacity  and  enjoyment  of  life;  his  happy 
insouciance  was  constant.  Never  was  a  lad  at  once  so 
jovial,  so  healthy,  and  so  sedentary.  Good  spirits  and 
merriment  seemed  to  enable  him  to  dispense  with  the 
glow  of  cricket  or  football,  and  if  in  his  still  earlier 
days  he  ever  'fagged  out'  it  must  have  been  bitterly 
against  his  will.  We  were  now  and  then,  indeed,  out 
together  in  small  fishing  parties,  but  it  was  for  the  talk- 
ing, and  the  change,  and  the  green  fields,  and  the  tea 
abroad  instead  of  at  home — cakes,  etc.,  accompanying 
(for  he  was  always  gustative,  never  greedy) — that  Thack- 
eray liked  these  expeditions.  I  question  whether  he 
knew  the  difference  between  a  roach  and  a  gudgeon — 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbouse  29 

except  when  fried — whether  he  ever  caught  either  the 
one  or  the  other  I  am  much  disposed  to  doubt;  or 
whether  he  cared  about  doing  so.  ...  Though 
keenly  ambitious  and  very  sensitive  of  failure,  Thackeray 
was  wonderfully  free  from  anything  like  vanity  or  con- 
ceit." 

"My  recollection  of  him,"  his  friend  George  Stovin 
Venables  wrote  to  Anthony  Trollope,  "though  fresh 
enough,  does  not  furnish  much  material  for  biography. 
He  came  to  school  young — a  pretty,  gentle,  and  rather 
timid  boy.  I  think  his  experience  there  was  not  gen- 
erally pleasant.  Though  he  had  afterwards  a  scholar-like 
knowledge  of  Latin,  he  did  not  attain  distinction  in  the 
school,  and  I  should  think  that  the  character  of  the 
headmaster,  Dr.  Russell,  which  was  vigorous,  unsympa- 
thetic, and  stern,  though  not  severe,  was  uncongenial  to 
his  own.  With  the  boys  who  knew  him,  Thackeray  was 
popular,  but  he  had  no  skill  in  games,  and  I  think  no 
taste  for  them. 

"He  was  already  known  by  his  faculty  for  making 
verses,  chiefly  parodies.  I  only  remember  one  line  of 
one  parody  on  a  poem  of  L.  E.  L.'s  about  'Violets, 
dark  blue  violets' ;  Thackeray's  version  was  'Cabbages, 
bright  green  cabbages,'  and  we  thought  it  very  witty." 

This  parody,  his  first  literary  effort,  has  only  once 
been  printed,  and  then  in  a  magazine,  so  that  it  is  prac- 
tically unknown ;  and  it  shows  so  clearly  the  sense  of 
humour  and  the  eye  for  the  ridiculous  which  distin- 
guished all  Thackeray's  later  works,  that  I  venture  to 
print  it  here,  putting,  for  the  sake  of  the  reader's 
convenience,  the  poem  of  which  it  is  a  parody  by  its 
side. 


3° 


'QCUlllam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacftera^ 


VIOLETS  (L.  E.  L.) 

Violets!  deep  blue  violets! 

April's  loveliest  coronets: 

There  are  no  flowers  grow  in  the 
vale, 

Kissed  by  the  sun,  woo'd  by  the 
gale, 

None  with  the  dew  of  the  twilight 
wet, 

So  sweet  as  the  deep  blue  vio- 
let. 

I    do    remember   how    sweet    a 

breath 
Came  with  the  azure  light  of  a 

wreath, 
That  hung  round  the  wild  harp's 

golden  chords 
That  rang  to  my  dark-eyed  lover's 

words. 
I    have    seen    that    dear    harp 

rolled 
With  gems  of  the  East  and  bands 

of  gold, 
But  it  never  was   sweeter  than 

when  set 
With  leaves  of    the  dark    blue 

violet. 

And  when  the  grave  shall  open 

for  me — 
I   care  not  how  soon  that  time 

may  be — 
Never  a  rose  shall  bloom  on  my 

tomb, 
It  breathes  too  much  of  hope  and 

bloom; 
But  let  me  have  there  the  meek 

regret 
Of  the  bending  and  deep  blue 

violet. 


CABBAGES  (W.  M.  T.) 

Cabbages !  bright  green  cabbages ! 

April's  loveliest  gifts,  I  guess. 

There  is  not  a  plant  in  the  gar- 
den laid, 

Raised  by  the  dung,  dug  by  the 
spade, 

None  by  the  gardener  watered, 
I  ween, 

So  sweet  as  the  cabbage,  the 
cabbage  green. 

I    do    remember   how    sweet    a 

smell 
Came  with  the  cabbage  I  loved 

so  well, 
Served   up    with    the   best  that 

beautiful  looked 
The  beef  that  dark-eyed   Ellen 

cooked. 
I   have   seen   beef  served  with 

raddish  of  horse, 
I  have    seen  beef   served    with 

lettuce  of  cos, 
But  it  is   far  nicer,  far  nicer,  I 

guess, 
As  bubble  and  squeak,  beef  and 

cabbages. 

And  when  the  dinner-bell  sounds 
for  me — 

I  care  not  how  soon  that  time 
may  be — 

Carrots  shall  never  be  served  on 
my  cloth, 

They  are  far  too  sweet  for  a  boy 
of  my  broth; 

But  let  me  have  there  a  mighty 
mess 

Of  smoking  hot  beef  and  cab- 
bages. 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbouse  31 

To  prophesy  after  the  event  is  always  an  absurdity, 
but  there  is  no  doubt  that  Cabbages  might  easily  have 
been  worse.  At  least,  Cabbages  is  a  better  parody  than 
Violets  is  a  poem — but  it  can,  of  course,  be  retorted 
that  this  is  not  necessarily  imputing  any  great  merit  to 
the  schoolboy  parody.  It  is,  moreover,  worthy  of  note 
as  an  index  to  Thackeray's  mind,  and  as  showing  that, 
while  he  always  had  a  profound  reverence  for  the  beauti- 
ful in  art,  as  his  boyish  appreciation  of  Keats  and  his 
later  admiration  for  Tennyson  demonstrate,  he  had  a 
corresponding  natural  antipathy  to  the  mawkish  or  feebly 
sentimental,  which  was  the  cause  and  mainspring  of  his 
genius  for  parody  and  burlesque. 

Anthony  Trollope  has  printed  some  lines  of  doggerel, 
attributed  at  Charterhouse  to  Thackeray,  which  show  the 
marvellous  tendency  to  almost  impossible  rhymes  that 
was  in  itself  a  distinguishing  merit  of  his  humourous 
poetry.  And  now  I  must  find  space  for  a  few  of  the 
eleven  verses  of  the  Holyday  Song,  to  which  I  have 
already  referred,  and  which  is  printed  in  fac-simile  in  the 
Grey  friars  by  Mr.  Davies: 

Now  let  us  dance  and  sing, 
While  Carthusian  bells  do  ring; 
Joy  twangs  the  fiddle-string, 

And  Freedom  blows  the  flute. 

Tiddle-dum  and  Tiddle-di— 

What  a  joke  for  you  and  I — 

Dulce  domum,  let  us  cry — 

Charterhouse  adieu. 

Purblind  Cupid  still  drag  on 
Some  more  days  ere  he  can  brag  on 
Killing  game  to  fill  a  waggon, 
And  thy  shooting-jacket  too! 


32  ZKHilliam  /iDafcepeace  Ubacfeera^ 

Yet,  oh  stay!  thou  beauteous  sister 
Who  has  caused  heartburn  and  blister 
To  that  paragon  young  mister, 
Joseph  Carne! 

Queen  of  Beauty!  Star  of  Harrow! 
Thou  has  shot  thro'  heart  and  marrow 
And  stricken  Makepeace  with  thy  arrow 
In  the  head-brain. 

"His  change  of  retrospective  feeling  about  his  school- 
days was  very  characteristic,"  Mr.  Venables  continued. 
"In  his  earlier  books  he  always  spoke  of  the  Charter- 
house as  Slaughter  House  and  Smithfield.  As  he  be- 
came famous  and  prosperous,  his  memory  softened,  and 
Slaughter  House  was  changed  into  Grey  Friars  where 
Colonel  Newcome  ended  his  life." 

It  was  with  Venables  that  Thackeray  had  the  fight 
that  he,  at  least,  could  never  have  entirely  forgotten. 
"That  unlucky  fight!"  Mr.  Ronpell,  the  monitor  at 
Penny's  in  1822,  has  said.  "It  was  on  a  wet  half-holi- 
day, I  think,  when  a  boy  named  Glossip  came  and  asked 
leave  for  Thackeray  and  Venables  to  fight.  We  wanted 
some  amusement,  so  I  let  them  fight  it  out  in  our  long 
room,  with  the  important  result  to  Thackeray's  nasal 
organ."  It  says  much  for  Thackeray's  manliness  and 
sweetness  of  disposition  that  he  and  his  opponent  became 
firm  friends  and  remained  so  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

Yet  it  is  from  Thackeray's  own  pen  that  we  have 
what  is  probably  the  best  description  of  himself  as  a  boy. 

"Arthur  Pendennis's  school-fellows  at  the  Greyfriars 
school  state  that,  as  a  boy,  he  was  in  no  ways  remarkable 
either  as  a  dunce  or  as  a  scholar,"  he  wrote.  "He  did, 
in  fact,  just  as  much  as  was  required  of  him,  and  no 
more.  If  he  was  distinguished  for  anything  it  was  for 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbouse  33 

verse-writing;  but  was  his  enthusiasm  ever  so  great,  it 
stopped  when  he  had  composed  the  number  of  lines 
demanded  by  the  regulations  (unlike  your  Swettenham, 
for  instance,  who,  with  no  more  of  poetry  in  his  compo- 
sition than  Mr.  Wakley,  yet  would  bring  up  a  hundred 
dreary  hexameters  to  the  master  after  a  half-holiday;  or 
young  Fluxmore,  who  not  only  did  his  own  verses,  but 
all  the  fifth  form's  besides).  He  never  read  to  improve 
himself  out  of  school-hours,  but,  on  the  contrary,  de- 
voured all  the  novels,  plays,  and  poetry  on  which  he 
could  lay  his  hands.  He  never  was  flogged,  but  it  was  a 
wonder  how  he  escaped  the  whipping-post.  When  he 
had  money  he  spent  it  royally  in  tarts  for  himself  and 
his  friends ;  he  has  been  known  to  disburse  nine  and  six- 
pence out  of  ten  shillings  awarded  to  him  in  a  single  day. 
When  he  had  no  funds  he  went  on  tick.  When  he  could 
get  no  credit  he  went  without,  and  was  almost  as  happy. 
He  has  been  known  to  take  a  thrashing  for  a  crony  with- 
out saying  a  word ;  but  a  blow,  ever  so  slight,  from  a 
friend,  would  make  him  roar.  To  fighting  he  was  averse 
from  his  earliest  youth,  as  indeed  to  physic,  the  Greek 
grammar,  or  any  other  exertion,  and  would  engage  in 
none  of  them,  except  at  the  last  extremity.  He  seldom 
if  ever  told  lies,  and  never  bullied  little  boys.  Those 
masters  or  seniors  who  were  kind  to  him,  he  loved  with 
boyish  ardour.  And  though  the  Doctor,  when  he  did 
not  know  his  Horace,  or  could  not  construe  his  Greek 
play,  said  that  that  boy  Pendennis  was  a  disgrace  to  the 
school,  a  candidate  for  ruin  in  this  world,  and  perdition 
in  the  next ;  a  profligate,  who  would  most  likely  bring 
his  venerable  father  to  ruin  and  his  mother  to  a  dishon- 
oured grave,  and  the  like — yet  as  the  Doctor  made 
use  of  these  compliments  to  most  of  the  boys  in  the 


34          William  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfterap 

place  (which  has  not  turned  out  an  unusual  number  of 
felons  and  pickpockets),  little  Pen,  at  first  uneasy  and 
terrified  by  the  charges,  became  gradually  accustomed  to 
hear  them ;  and  he  has  not,  in  fact,  either  murdered  his 
parents,  or  committed  any  act  worthy  of  transportation 
or  hanging  up  to  the  present  day." 

Thackeray's  sense  of  humour  seems  to  have  been  very 
early  developed,  as  the  following  practical  joke  shows. 
Dr.  Senior,  when  a  boy,  sat  next  to  Thackeray  in  the 
class-room,  and  he  was  dozing  there  on  a  sultry  summer 
afternoon  while  Adam's  Roman  Antiquities  was  being 
read  aloud.  A  sentence  had  just  been  concluded,  when 
Senior  was  aroused  by  hearing  his  name  called,  and  by 
being  asked  the  question:  "What  was  provided  for  the 
Senators  when  they  met?"  Not  having  the  vaguest  idea 
of  what  to  answer,  he  was  delighted  to  hear  a  neighbour- 
ing voice  murmur,  "Try  'Wine.'  '  Thereupon  Senior 
answered  boldly,  "Wine";  and  of  course  the  boys  were 
convulsed  with  laughter.  "Try  'Bread  and  cheese,'' 
murmured  the  prompting  voice.  The  other,  however, 
would  not  try  any  more,  and  a  severe  imposition 
rewarded  his  first  attempt. 

The  sentence  on  which  the  silly  question  had  been 
founded  was:  "The  Senators  met  periodically  in  the 
Temple  of  So-and-so,  where  seats  or  benches  were  pro- 
vided for  their  accommodation" ;  and — it  is  almost  need- 
less to  add — the  voice  of  the  tempter  was  the  voice  of 
Thackeray. 

How  clearly  these  days  of  boyhood  were  impressed 
upon  the  man's  mind  can  be  seen  when,  some  forty  years 
later,  he  wrote  of  these  times  in  a  Roundabout  Paper — 
"Tunbridge  Toys." 

"At  the  beginning  of  August,  1823,   Bartlemy-tide 


at  tbe  Cbarterbouse  35 

holidays  came,  and  I  was  to  go  to  my  parents,  who  were 
at  Tunbridge  Wells.  My  place  in  the  coach  was  taken 
by  my  tutor's  servant.  'Bolt-in-Tun,'  Fleet  Street, 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  the  word.  My  tutor, 

the   Rev.   Edward  P ,  had  a  parting  interview  with 

me;  gave  me  my  little  account  for  the  governor;  the 
remaining  part  of  the  coach-hire;  five  shillings  for  my 
own  expenses;  and  some  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  an 
old  account  which  had  been  overpaid  and  was  to  be 
restored  to  my  family.  Away  I  ran  and  paid  Hawker 
his  three-and-six  [for  a  pencil  case  purchased  from  him]. 
Ouf !  what  a  weight  it  was  off  my  mind !  The 

next  morning,  of  course,  we  were  an  hour  before  the 
time.  I  and  another  boy  shared  a  hackney-coach ;  two- 
and-six;  porter  for  putting  luggage  on  coach,,  three- 
pence. I  had  no  more  money  of  my  own  left.  Rasherwell, 
my  companion,  went  into  the  'Bolt-in-Tun'  coffee-room 
and  had  a  good  breakfast.  I  couldn't,  because  though 
I  had  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my  parents'  money,  I 
had  none  of  my  own,  you  see.  I  certainly  intended  to 
go  without  breakfast,  and  still  remember  how  strongly  I 
had  that  resolution  in  my  mind.  But  there  was  that 
hour  to  wait.  A  beautiful  August  morning — I  am  very 
hungry.  There  is  Rasherwell  'tucking'  away  in  the 
coffee-room.  I  pace  the  street,  as  sadly  almost  as  if  I 
had  been  coming  to  school,  not  going  thence.  I  turn 
into  a  court  by  mere  chance— *I  vow  it  was  by  mere 
chance — and  there  I  see  a  coffee-shop  with  a  placard  in 
the  window,  Coffee,  Twopence,  Round  of  Buttered  Toast, 
Twopence.  And  here  I  am,  hungry,  penniless,  with  five- 
and-twenty  shilings  of  my  parents'  money  in  my  pocket. 
What  would  you  have  done?  You  see  I  had  had  my 
money,  and  spent  it  in  that  pencil-case  affair.  The  five- 


36          William  flDafeepeace 

and-twenty  shillings  were  a  trust — by  me  to  be  handed 
over. 

"But  then  would  my  parents  want  their  only  child  to 
be  actually  without  breakfast?  Having  this  money,  and 
being  so  hungry,  so  very  hungry,  mightn't  I  take  ever 
so  little?  Mightn't  I  at  home  eat  as  much  as  I  chose? 

"Well,  I  went  into  the  coffee-shop,  and  spent  four- 
pence.  I  remember  the  taste  of  the  coffee  and  toast  to 
this  day — a  peculiar  muddy,  not-sweet-enough  coffee — a 
rich  rancid,  yet  not-buttered-enough  delicious  toast. 
The  waiter  had  nothing.  At  any  rate,  fourpence,  I 
know,  was  the  sum  I  spent.  And  my  hunger  appeased, 
I  got  on  the  coach  a  guilty  being.  At  the  last  stage — 
what  is  its  name?  I  have  forgotten  in  seven-and-thirty 
years — there  is  an  inn  with  a  little  green  and  trees  before 
it:  and  by  the  trees  is  an  open  carriage.  It  is  our  car- 
riage. Yes,  there  are  Prince  and  Blucher,  the  horses; 
and  my  parents  in  the  carriage.  Oh,  how  I  had  been 
counting  the  days  until  this  one  came !  Oh !  how  happy 
I  had  been  to  see  them  yesterday!  But  there  was  that 
fourpence.  All  the  journey  down  the  toast  had  choked 
me,  and  the  coffee  poisoned  me. 

"I  was  in  such  a  state  of  remorse  about  the  fourpence, 
that  I  forgot  the  maternal  joy  and  caresses,  the  tender 
paternal  voice.  I  pull  out  the  twenty-four  shillings  and 
eightpence  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"  'Here's  your  money,'  I  gasp  out,  'which  Mr.  P 

owes  you,  all  but  fourpence.  I  owed  three  and  six  to 
Hawker  out  of  my  money  for  a  pencil-case,  and  I  had 
none  left,  and  I  took  fourpence  of  yours  and  had  some 
coffee  at  a  shop.' 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  been  choking  whilst  uttering 
this  confession. 


Ht  tbe  Gbarterbouse  37 

"  'My  dear  boy,'  says  the  Governor,  'why  didn't  you 
go  and  breakfast  at  the  hotel?' 

"  'He  must  be  starved,'  says  my  mother. 

"I  had  confessed;  I  had  been  a  prodigal;  I  had  been 
taken  back  to  my  parents'  arms  again.  It  was  not  a 
very  great  crime  as  yet,  or  a  very  long  career  of  prodi- 
gality; but  don't  we  know  that  a  boy  who  takes  a  pin 
which  is  not  his  own  will  take  a  thousand  pounds  when 
occasion  serves,  bring  his  parents'  gray  heads  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave,  and  carry  his  own  to  the  gallows. 
Oh !  Heaven  be  thanked,  my  parents'  heads  are  still 
above  the  grass,  and  mine  is  still  out  of  the  noose." 

The  extract  is  long,  but  this  picture  of  the  boy  is  one 
to  dwell  upon,  for  it  applies  equally  to  the  man.  All 
his  faults  were  of  this  fourpenny  order,  that  is  to  say,  of 
small  importance — and  he  worried  himself  about  them 
just  as  he  did  about  the  above  trifle.  How  true  this  is 
may  be  gathered  from  the  story  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor  has 
told  of  a  visit  that,  in  1860,  he  paid  with  Thackeray  to 
Baron  Marochetti,  the  sculptor,  who  was  then  the 
novelist's  next-door  neighbour  in  Onslow  Square.  The 
Baron  took  down  a  small  engraving  of  Albert  Diirer's 
from  the  wall — the  subject  was  St.  George  and  the 
Dragon — and  gave  it  to  Thackeray,  who  inspected  the 
gift  with  great  delight  for  a  few  minutes ;  and  then,  sud- 
denly becoming  grave,  turned  to  his  companion  and 
said,  "I  shall  hang  it  near  the  head  of  my  bed,  where  I 
can  see  it  every  morning.  We  have  all  our  dragons  to 
fight.  Do  you  know  yours?  I  know  mine;  I  have  not 
one,  but  two.  Indolence  and  luxury.  ...  I  am 
serious.  I  never  take  up  the  pen  without  an  effort.  I 
work  only  from  necessity.  I  never  walk  without  seeing 
some  pretty  useless  thing  which  I  want  to  buy.  Some- 


38          TOlltam  /iDafeepeace 

times  I  pass  the  same  shop  window  every  day  for  months, 
and  resist  the  temptation  and  think  I  am  safe;  then 
comes  the  day  of  weakness,  and  I  yield.  My  physician 
tells  me  that  I  must  live  very  simply,  and  not  dine  out 
so  much;  but  I  cannot  break  off  the  agreeable  habit.  I 
shall  look  at  this  picture,  and  think  of  my  dragons, 
though  I  don't  expect  to  overcome  them." 

But  I  must  return  to  the  Roundabout  Paper,  from 
which  I  quote  again.  "As  I  look  up  from  my  desk,  I 
see  Tunbridge  Wells  and  Common  in  the  rocks,  the 
strange  familiar  place  which  I  remember  forty  years  ago. 
Boys  saunter  over  the  green  with  stumps  and  cricket  bats. 
Other  boys  gallop  by  on  the  riding-master's  hacks.  I 
protest  it  is  'Cramp,  Riding  Master,'  as  it  used  to  be  in 
the  reign  of  George  IV.,  and  that  Centaur  Cramp  must 
be  at  least  a  hundred  years  old.  Yonder  comes  a  foot- 
man with  a  bundle  of  novels  from  the  library.  Are  they 
as  good  as  our  novels?  Oh!  how  delightful  they  were! 
Shades  of  Valancour,  awful  ghost  of  Manfroni,  how  I 
shudder  at  your  appearance !  Sweet  image  of  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw,  how  often  has  this  almost  infantile  hand 
tried  to  depict  you  in  a  Polish  cap  and  richly  embroi- 
dered tights!  And  as  for  Corinthian  Tom  in  light  blue 
pantaloons  and  hessians,  can  all  the  splendour  of  real  life 
which  their  eyes  have  subsequently  beheld,  and  all  the 
will  I  have  heard  or  read  in  later  times,  compare  with 
your  fashion,  with  your  brilliancy,  with  your  delightful 
grace  and  sparkling  vivacious  rattle?  .  .  .  [My  eyes] 
are  looking  backwards,  back  into  forty  years  off,  into  a 
dark  room,  into  a  little  house  hard  by  on  the  Common 
here,  in  the  Bartlemy-tide  holidays.  The  parents  have 
gone  to  town  for  two  days:  the  house  is  all  his  own,  his 
own  and  a  grim  old  maid-servant's,  and  a  little  boy  is 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbouse  39 

seated  at  night  in  the  lonely  drawing-room,  poring  over 
Manfroni,  or  the  One-Handed  Monk,  so  frightened  that 
he  scarce  dared  to  turn  round." 

Thackeray  left  Charterhouse  in  May,  1828,  but  he 
revisited  it  many  times.  In  1859  we  hear  of  his  dining 
with  Mr.  John  Irvine  in  the  Masters'  Common  Room  at 
Charterhouse,  when  after  dinner  and  chapel  they  went  to 
the  headmaster's  house,  where  the  headmaster  (Canon 
Elwyn)  produced  the  "Green  Book,"  so  that  Thackeray 
might  con  over  the  names  of  his  school  contemporaries. 
When  he  came  to  his  own  name,  Thackeray  found 
recorded,  after  Trin.  Coll.  Camb.,  in  the  space  devoted 
to  "subsequent  career":  "Michel  (?)  Angelo  Titmarsh, 
sub-editor  of  The  Globe  \  and  he  exclaimed  with  much 
(probably  feigned)  indignation,  "I  never  was  sub-editor 
of  The  Globe.  I  worked  for  The  Globe,  but  I  never  was 
sub-editor."  This  statement  was  erased,  and  the  new 
entry  is:  "Author  of  Vanity  Fair,  The  Newcomes,  etc., 
died  Christmas,  1863."* 

His  last  visit  was  on  Founder's  Day  (December  I2th), 
1863,  and  the  scene  has  been  described  by  eye-witnesses. 

"He  was  there  in  his  usual  back  seat  in  the  quaint 
old  chapel.  He  went  thence  to  the  oration  in  the  Gov- 
ernor's room;  and  as  he  walked  up  to  the  orator  with 

*The  bed  upon  which  Thackeray  died  was  given  by  his  daughters 
to  Charterhouse,  and  to  the  Head  Gownboy  and  his  successors  has 
been  accorded  the  privilege  of  lying  upon  it;  and  Archdeacon  Hale, 
then  Master  of  the  Charterhouse,  wrote  the  following  inscription, 
which  was  engraved  at  its  head: — 

HOC   LECTO  RECUMBENS 
OBDORMIVTT  IN   CHRISTO 

GULIELMUS  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 
ix  KAL.  JANVAR:  AN.  MDCCCLXIV 

SCHOL.C  CARTHUSIANS  QUONDAM   DISCIPULUS 
MATURA  ^ETATE   HUJUSCE   LOCI    AMANTISSIMUS 

UTI   TESTANTUR   EJUS   SCRIPTA 

PER   ORBEM   TERRARUM   DIVULGATA 

V1X1T  ANNOS    LII. 


40          TKBUliam  flDafeepeace  tlbacfeeras 

his  contribution,  was  received  with  such  hearty  applause 
as  only  Carthusians  can  give  to  one  who  has  immortalised 
their  school.  At  the  banquet  afterwards  he  sat  at  the 
side  of  his  old  friend  and  artist-associate  in  Punch,  John 
Leech;  and  in  a  humorous  speech  proposed,  as  a  toast, 
the  noble  foundation  which  he  had  adorned  by  his  liter- 
ary fame,  and  made  popular  in  his  works.  .  .  .  Divine 
Service  took  place  at  four  o'clock  in  the  quaint  old 
chapel;  and  the  appearance  of  the  brethren  in  their 
black  gowns,  of  the  old  stained  glass  and  carving  in  the 
chapel,  of  the  tomb  of  Sutton,  could  hardly  fail  to  give 
a  peculiar  and  interesting  character  to  the  service. 
Prayers  were  said  by  the  Rev.  J.  J.  Halcombe,  the  reader 
of  the  House.  There  was  only  the  usual  parochial 
chanting  of  the  Nunc  Dimittis;  the  familiar  Commemora- 
tion Day  psalms,  122  and  100,  were  sung  after  the  third 
collect  and  before  the  sermon;  and  before  the  general 
thanksgiving  the  old  prayer  was  offered  up  expressive  of 
thankfulness  to  God  for  the  bounty  of  Thomas  Sutton, 
and  of  hope  that  all  who  enjoy  it  might  make  a  right  use 
of  it.  The  sermon  was  preached  by  the  Rev.  Henry 
Earle  Tweed,  late  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  who 
prefaced  it  with  the  'Bidding  Prayer,'  in  which  he 
desired  the  congregation  to  pray  generally  for  all  the 
public  schools  and  colleges,  and  particularly  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  house  founded  by  Thomas  Sutton  for  the 
support  of  age  and  the  education  of  youth." 

In  many  of  his  books  Thackeray  has  mentioned  the 
school,  and  young  Rawdon  Crawley,  Pendennis,  Colonel 
Newcome  and  his  son,  Philip  Firmin,  and  many  other 
"living"  characters  spent  their  boyhood  there;  but  The 
Newcomes  immortalised  the  establishment,  and  well 
earned  for  him  the  title  of  "Carthusianus  Carthusian- 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbouse  41 

orum."  It  was  while  at  the  School  on  Founder's  Day, 
1854,  that  Thackeray  suddenly  exclaimed,  "I  shall  put 
all  this  in  my  book"  ;  and  in  the  following  April  he  asked 
John  Irvine,  then  a  boy  at  Charterhouse,  to  introduce 
him  to  a  "Codd"  (a  colloquial  term  for  the  Poor  Broth- 
ers of  the  Charterhouse),  adding,  "Colonel  Newcome  is 
going  to  beaCodd."  Young  Irvine,  whose  acquaint- 
ance with  the  "Codds"  was  very  limited,  took  him  to 
see  Captain  Light,  an  old  army  man  whom  blindness  and 
reduced  circumstances  had  compelled  to  seek  the  privi- 
leged shelters  of  Thomas  Sutton's  Hospital,  where  he 
was  tended  during  the  day  by  his  daughter.  Many 
times  Thackeray  went  to  see  the  veteran,  who,  it  is 
related,  used  to  gleefully  declare,  "I'm  going  to  sit  for 
Colonel  Newcome"  ;  and  he  wound  up  his  series  of  visits 
by  giving  a  lecture  to  the  boys.  I  have  only  found  this 
lecture  mentioned  in  an  article  by  "D.  D."  in  the 
National  Review  for  1889. 

"  'You  little  fellows  perhaps  won't  understand  a  word 
of  what  I'm  going  to  say,'  he  addressed  the  juniors; 
'but  you  don't  care;  you're  so  full  of  delight  at  the 
thoughts  of  going  home  to-morrow  that  no  words  of  mine 
could  make  any  difference,  or  make  you  feel  a  bit  jollier. ' 
Then,  turning  to  the  elder  boys,  'The  predecessor  of 
your  friend,  Dr.  Senior,  whom  I  well  remember  in  that 
chair,  and  who  gave  me  the  soundest  reasons  for  well 
remembering  him,  was  the  author  of  two  highly  popular 
treatises,  one  the  Grey  Friars'  Latin  Grammar,  the  other 
its  Greek  ditto,  to  which  amusing  works  we  all  subscribed. 
They  ran  through  many  editions,  and,  I  believe,  are  not 
yet  quite  obsolete.'  Then  came  some  facetiously  pen- 
sive recollections  of  his  days  as  a  fag,  making  So-and- 
so's  toast  and  blacking  So-and-so's  boots  for  a  leave-day 


42          TKflUltam  flDafeepeace 

outing.  Then,  looking  round  at  the  'Uppers,'  'Is  there 
still  in  the  Purlieus  of  this  venerable  foundation  a  Red 
Cow?  I'm  not  referring  to  Smithfield,  or  rather,  to 
speak  quite  classically,  * '  Smiffel. ' '  There  was  in  my  time. 
She  lived  up  a  lane,  and  to  the  milk  of  that  animal  many 
of  us  were  strongly  addicted.'  Some  notice  of  the 
story-books  he  loved  as  a  boy,  and  a  handsome  compli- 
ment to  'Boz'  for  having  provided  the  youngster  with 
Pickwick  and  Nickleby,  concluded  the  lecture." 

Well  may  the  Captain  have  been  proud,  for  he  had 
inspired  some  of  the  grandest  pages  of  English  literature, 
with  the  quotation  of  one  of  which  I  shall  conclude  my 
account  of  Thackeray's  connection  with  the  Charterhouse 
School. 

"Mention  has  been  made  once  or  twice  in  the  course 
of  the  history  of  the  Grey  Friars  school — where  the 
Colonel  and  Clive  and  I  had  been  brought  up — an  ancient 
foundation  of  the  time  of  James  I.,  still  subsisting  in  the 
heart  of  London  city.  The  death  day  of  the  founder  of 
the  place  is  still  kept  solemnly  by  Cistercians.  In  their 
chapel,  where  assemble  the  boys  of  the  school,  and  the 
fourscore  old  men  of  the  Hospital,  the  founder's  tomb 
stands,  a  huge  edifice,  emblazoned  with  heraldic  decora- 
tions and  clumsy  carved  allegories.  There  is  an  old 
Hall,  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  architecture  of  James's 
time;  an  old  Hall?  many  old  halls;  old  staircases,  old 
passages,  old  chambers  decorated  with  old  portraits, 
walking  in  the  midst  of  which  we  walk  as  it  were  in  the 
early  seventeenth  century.  To  others  than  Cistercians, 
Grey  Friars  is  a  dreary  place  possibly.  Nevertheless, 
the  pupils  educated  there  love  to  revisit  it ;  and  the  old- 
est of  us  grow  young  again  for  an  hour  or  two  as  we 
come  back  into  those  scenes  of  childhood. 


at  tbe  Gbarterbouse  43 

"The  custom  of  the  School  is,  that  on  the  I2th  De- 
cember, the  Founder's  Day,  the  head  gown-boy  shall 
make  a  Latin  oration  in  praise  Fundatoris  Nostri  and 
upon  other  subjects;  and  a  goodly  company  of  old  Cis- 
tercians is  generally  brought  together  to  attend  this 
oration ;  after  which  we  go  to  Chapel  and  tea  and  ser- 
mon ;  after  which  we  adjourn  to  a  great  dinner,  where 
old  condisciples  meet,  old  toasts  are  given  and  speeches 
are  made.  Before  marching  from  the  Oration  Hall  to 
chapel,  the  stewards  of  the  day's  dinner,  according  to 
old-fashioned  rite,  have  wands  put  into  their  hands, 
walk  to  church  at  the  head  of  the  procession,  and  sit 
there  in  places  of  honour.  The  boys  are  already  in  their 
seats,  with  shining  fresh  faces  and  shining  white  collars ; 
the  old  black-gowned  pensioners  are  on  their  benches; 
the  chapel  is  lighted,  and  Founder's  Tomb,  with  its  gro- 
tesque carvings,  monsters,  heraldries,  darkles  and  shines 
with  the  most  wonderful  shadows  and  lights.  There  he 
lies,  Fundator  Noster,  in  his  muff  and  gown,  awaiting 
the  great  examination  day.  We  oldsters,  be  we  ever  so 
old,  become  boys  again  as  we  look  at  that  familiar  old 
tomb,  and  think  how  the  seats  are  altered  since  we  were 
here,  and  how  the  doctor — not  the  present  doctor,  the 
doctor  of  our  time — used  to  sit  yonder,  and  his  awful 
eye  used  to  frighten  us  shuddering  boys  on  whom  it 
lighted ;  and  how  the  boy  next  us  would  kick  our  shins 
during  service  time,  and  how  the  monitor  would  cane  us 
afterwards  because  our  shins  were  kicked.  Yonder  sit 
forty  cherry-cheeked  boys  thinking  about  home  and 
holidays  to-morrow.*  Yonder  sit  some  three  score  old 

*"  Little  Rawdon  was  there  sitting,  one  of  fifty  gown-boys  in  the 
Chapel  of  Whitefriars  School,  thinking,  not  about  the  sermon,  but 
about  going  home  next  Saturday,  when  his  father  would  certainly  tip 
him,  and  perhaps  would  take  him  to  the  play." — Vanity  Fair. 


44          William  flDafcepeace  Ubacftetap 

gentlemen,  pensioners  of  the  hospital,  listening  to  the 
prayers  and  psalms.  You  hear  them  coughing  feebly  in 
the  twilight — the  old  reverend  black-gowns.  Is  Codd 
Ajax  alive  you  wonder? — the  Cistercian  lads  called  the  old 
gentlemen  'Codds, '  I  know  not  wherefore — I  know  not 
wherefore — but  is  old  Codd  Ajax  alive,  I  wonder?  or 
Codd  Soldier?  or  kind  old  Codd  Gentleman?  or  has  the 
grave  closed  over  them?  A  plenty  of  candles  light  up 
this  chapel,  and  this  scene  of  age  and  youth  and  early 
memories,  and  pompous  death.  How  solemn  the  well- 
remembered  prayers  are,  here  uttered  again  in  the  place 
where  in  childhood  we  used  to  hear  them !  How  beau- 
tiful and  decorous  the  rite;  how  noble  the  ancient  words 
of  the  supplications  which  the  priest  utters,  and  to  which 
generations  of  fresh  children  and  troops  of  bygone  seniors 
have  cried  Amen !  under  those  arches. 

Thackeray  spent  his  holidays  at  Addiscombe  until 
Major  Smyth,  retiring  in  1825,  settled  down  as  a  gentle- 
man farmer  at  Larkbeare,  on  the  confines  of  the  parish 
of  Ottery  St.  Mary.  Here  Thackeray  also  stayed  for 
some  months  in  the  interval  between  leaving  school  and 
going  up  to  Cambridge,  while  his  stepfather  coached  him 
for  his  university  career;  and  Mrs.  Ritchie  remembers 
being  told  that  while  Euclid  was  child's  play  to  her 
father,  he  disliked  algebra,  and  to  the  end  of  his  days 
declared  he  could  never  understand  the  difference  be- 
tween latitude  and  longitude. 

Doctor  Cornish,  who  was  the  Vicar  at  this  time,  has 
inserted  in  his  Short  Notes  on  the  Church  and  Parish  of 
Ottery  St.  Mary,  Devon,  an  interesting  page,  headed 
Clavering  St.  Mary  and  Pendennis.  "No  person  of  these 
parts,"  he  wrote,  "can  read  Pendennis  without  being 
struck  with  the  impression  which  the  scenery  of  this 


at  tbe  Cbarterbouse  45 

neighbourhood  must  have  made  upon  his  mind,  to  be 
reproduced  in  that  remarkable  story  after  a  lapse  of  more 
than  twenty  years.  The  local  descriptions  clearly  iden- 
tify Clavering  St.  Mary,  Chatteris,  and  Baymouth,  with 
Ottery  St.  Mary,  Exeter,  and  Sidmouth;  and  in  the  first 
edition,  which  is  ornamented  with  vignettes  in  the 
margin,  an  unmistakable  representation  of  the  'cock- 
tower'  of  Ottery  St.  Mary  is  introduced.  But  though 
Clavering  St.  Mary  and  Chatteris  are  locally  identified 
with  Ottery  and  Exeter,  the  characteristics  of  the  story 
found  no  counterpart  in  the  inhabitants  of  either  locality. 
"In  Fraser's  Magazine  for  November,  1854,  there  is 
an  article,  entitled  Clavering  St.  Mary;  a  talk  about 
Devonshire  Worthies,  which  confirms  this  identity,  where 
it  speaks  of  the  birthplace  of  Pendennis,  that  'little  old 
town  of  Clavering  St.  Mary,'  past  which  the  rapid  river 
Brawl  holds  on  its  shining  course,  and  which  boasts  a 
fine  old  church  with  great  grey  towers,  of  which  the  sun 
illuminates  the  delicate  carving,  deepening  the  shadows 
of  the  deep  buttresses,  and  gilding  the  glittering  windows 
and  flaming  vane.  Things  have,  however,  changed  at 
Clavering  since  Mr.  Thackeray  spent  many  a  pleasant 
summer  holiday  there  in  his  boyhood.  The  old  Col- 
legiate church  has  been  swept  and  garnished,  bedizened 
with  finery  until  it  scarcely  knows  itself;  and  the  Wap- 
shot  boys  no  longer  make  a  good  cheerful  noise,  scuffling 
with  their  feet  as  they  march  into  church  and  up  the 
organ-loft  stairs,  but  walk  demurely  to  their  open  seats 
in  the  side  aisle."  Thus  we  see  that  even  Dr.  Portman 
existed,  in  a  modified  form,  as  Dr.  Cornish;  and  it  was 
this  gentleman  who  sent  some  of  Thackeray's  verses  to 
The  County  Chronicle  and  Chatteris  Champion,  which, 
however,  was  known  at  Exeter  as  The  Western  Luminary. 


46          William  /IDafeepeace 

And  Miss  Fotheringay?  Did  young  Thackeray  find 
an  angel  disguised  as  an  actress  in  the  Exeter  Theater? 
If  we  think  so  we  shall  be  in  good  company,  for  Mr. 
Herman  Merivale  entertains  a  secret  belief  that  there  was 
some  one  somewhere  that  the  youngster  wooed  and  loved 
and  (fortunately)  lost.  But  it  is  only  supposition.  Even 
the  poem  in  the  Western  Luminary  is  not  a  love-verse, 
but  only  a  parody  of  an  intended  speech  of  Lalor  Sheil's 
upon  Penenden  Heath,  which  he  was  not  allowed  to 
deliver,  but  of  which,  before  he  left  town,  he  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  send  copies  to  some  of  the  leading 
journals  for  insertion.  This  jeu  d?  esprit  was  the  first 
appearance  in  print  of  the  future  author  of  Esmond,  and 
as  such,  rather  than  on  account  of  its  merits,  obtains 
quotation  here. 

IRISH   MELODY 
(Air:  The  Minstrel  Boy.) 

Mister  Sheil  into  Kent  has  gone 

On  Penenden  Heath  you'll  find  him; 
Nor  think  you  that  he  came  alone, 

There's  Doctor  Doyle  behind  him. 

"Men  of  Kent,"  said  the  little  man, 

"  If  you  hate  Emancipation, 
You're  a  set  of  fools."     He  then  began 

A  cut  and  dry  oration. 

He  strove  to  speak,  but  the  men  of  Kent 

Began  a  grievous  shouting, 
When  out  of  the  waggon  the  little  man  went, 

And  put  a  stop  to  his  spouting. 

"  What  though  these  heretics  heard  me  not! " 

Quoth  he  to  his  friend  Canonical, 
"  My  speech  is  safe  in  the  Times,  I  wot, 

And  eke  in  the  Morning  Chronicle." 


Ht  tbe  Cbarterbousc  47 

We  gather  from  these  stray  recollections  of  Thack- 
eray's school-life  at  the  Charterhouse,  and  the  glimpses 
we  get  of  his  holiday  pursuits  at  Ottery  St.  Mary,  that, 
like  most  men  of  genius,  his  distinct  bias  was  already 
apparent,  both  in  his  studies  and  his  amusements.  It  is 
evident,  as  in  the  case  of  many  another  sensitive  boy 
with  a  predestined  leaning  toward  literature  and  art, 
that  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  was  neither  a  model 
student,  nor  had  he  any  keen  enjoyment  in  the  rude 
sports  and  pastimes  of  English  boyhood.  But  he  was  a 
clever,  manly,  and  affectionate  lad,  with  a  fine  sense  of 
fun  and  an  innate  gift  of  literary  expression.  Moreover, 
his  early  bent  was  distinctly  in  the  direction  of  humourous 
parody,  in  which  he  displayed  a  keen  eye  for  the  foibles 
and  futilities  of  his  fellows,  and  but  little  of  that  love  of 
mere  sentiment  which  distinguishes  the  juvenile  efforts 
of  even  so  masculine  a  mind  as  Byron's.  In  Thackeray's 
case,  as  in  most  others,  the  Child  was  father  to  the  Man. 


CHAPTER   IV 

AT   CAMBRIDGE 


CHAPTER   IV 

AT    CAMBRIDGE 

WHEN  he  was  barely  nineteen,  in  February,  1829, 
exactly  one  year  after  Charles  and  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson, Thackeray  went  up  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
Major  Smyth  accompanied  him  (even  as  Major  Penden- 
nis  went  with  his  nephew),  and  they  stayed  for  a  few 
days  at  Slaughter's  Coffee  House,  in  London,  from 
whence  Thackeray  wrote  to  his  mother,  telling  her  of  a 
visit  to  Charterhouse,  where  he  had  seen  Dr.  Russell  and 
some  old  school-fellows,  of  calls  paid  upon  members  of 
the  family,  of  one  especially  to  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Ritchie, 
who  had  recommended  him  to  her  cousin,  the  Provost 
of  King's.  He  stayed  at  Cambridge  for  two  years,  and 
then  came  down  without  taking  his  degree.  This,  how- 
ever, was  not  because,  like  Pendennis,  he  was  "plucked," 
but  because,  going  up  in  February  instead  of  October,  he 
had  either  to  meet  men  who  had  three  months'  advan- 
tage of  him  at  the  May  examination,  or  to  wait  for  a 
whole  year  until  the  next  examinations.  It  was  decided 
that  he  should  adopt  the  only  other  possibility,  and  he 
left  the  University  "unplucked"  and  degreeless.  As  with 
the  three  famous  Cambridge  poets,  Byron,  Wordsworth, 
and  Tennyson,  Alma  Mater  was  able  to  confer  no  scho- 
lastic title  or  distinction  on  the  future  novelist. 

There  is  not  a  great  deal  to  record  of  these  years. 
His  letters  tell  of  his  work,  his  books,  and  his  friends, 


52  ISIUlliam  flbafeepeace  TTbacfeerap 

and  form  a  journal  of  his  daily  doings  that  differed  to  no 
particular  extent  from  those  of  far  less  intellectual  young 
men.  The  tutors  at  this  time  included  Whewell,  Julius 
Hare,  and  Cannop  Thirlwall ;  and  among  the  undergrad- 
uates were  the  Tennysons  (Frederick,  Charles,  and 
Alfred),  G.  S.  Venables,  E.  Blakesley,  James  Spedding, 
Arthur  Hallam,  Robert  Monteith,  Ralph  Bernal  (since 
known  as  Bernal  -  Osborne),  Hailstone,  Heyworth, 
Badger,  Mazzingli,  the  Lushingtons  (E.  L.,  and  Henry), 
W.  H.  Thompson  (subsequently  Master  of  Trinity), 
Charles  Kennedy,  Edward  Horsman,  Thomas  Sunder- 
land,  John  (now  Archdeacon)  Allen  (the  prototype  of 
Dobbin),  Henry  (afterwards  Dean)  Alford,  Richard 
Trench  (afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin),  and  Richard 
Monckton  Milnes,  the  first  Lord  Houghton.  In  other 
colleges  were  his  Charterhouse  comrades :  Carne,  Young 
(Caius),  Moody  (St.  John's),  and  Fawcett  (Corpus 
Christi);  and  his  friends  Wells,  Hine  (Corpus  Christi), 
and  Baker  (Caius). 

He  was  dull  at  first,  and  suffered  from  headache. 
Dr.  Thackeray  attended  him,  and  ordered  diet  and 
leeches,  and  refused  to  take  a  fee.  "What!"  he  de 
manded,  "do  you  take  me  for  a  cannibal?"  He  read 
classics  and  mathematics,  alternatively,  with  Whewell; 
attended  lectures  on  political  economy;  and  indulged  in 
an  immense  amount  of  desultory  reading,  principally 
fiction,  poetry,  and  history.  Indeed,  Thackeray  always 
advocated  the  study  of  this  last  branch  of  learning. 
"Read  a  tremendous  lot  of  history,"  he  one  day  advised 
a  young  cousin,  Mr.  Bedingfield,  as  they  were  leaving 
*the  Reading  Room  in  the  British  Museum;  though, 
speaking  of  this  same  subject  to  Mr.  Jeaffreson,  he 
declared,  "There's  nothing  new,  and  there's  nothing 


Ht  Cambridge  53 

true,  and  it  don't  much  signify." '"It  was  probably  at 
this  time  that  he  laid  the  foundation  of  his  love  for  the 
writers  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  general,  and,  in  par- 
ticular, for  Fielding's  works.  "My  English  would  have 
been  much  better  if  I  had  read  Fielding  before  I  was 
ten,"  he  said  years  after. 

According  to  a  letter  written  in  March,  1830,  he 
went  to  Fawcett,*  his  coach,  three  times  a  week,  from 
eight  to  nine ;  to  Fisher,  the  mathematical  lecturer,  from 
nine  to  ten ;  and  to  Stan,  the  classical  lecturer,  from  ten 
to  eleven.  He  read  Greek  plays  with  Badger — Badger 
was  a  freshman — from  eleven  to  twelve,  devoted  the 
next  hour  to  Euclid  and  Algebra,  and  worked  in  the 
evening  at  some  one  or  other  of  these  subjects,  or  at 
some  collateral  reading  connected  with  Thucydides  or 
^Eschylus.  "This  is  my  plan,  which  I  trust  to  be  able 
to  keep,"  he  concluded.  His  good  intentions  paved  the 
way  to  Fame.  Indeed,  his  craving  for  work  was  appar- 
ently insatiable,  and,  if  he  could  find  time,  he  determined 
to  write  for  a  college  prize  competition  an  English  essay 
on  "The  Influence  of  the  Homeric  Poems  on  the  Reli- 
gion, the  Politics,  the  Literature  and  Society  of  Greece." 
However — he  could  not  find  the  time. 

He  was  fortunately  not  too  much  occupied  to  go  to 
supper-parties,  where,  "though  not  talkative, — rather 
observant, — he  enjoyed  the  humour  of  the  hours,  and 
sang  one  or  two  old  songs  ["Old  King  Cole"  was  a 
favourite  with  him]  with  great  applause,  nor  to  practise 
fencing,  nor  to  play  chess,  nor  (as  he  took  care  to  record) 
to  fall  asleep  over  a  Life  of  Cardinal  Wolsey. 

*In  another  letter  he  wrote  of  Fawcett  as  a  "  most  desperate, 
good-hearted  bore,"  and  mentioned  how  the  coach,  while  endeavouring 
to  make  him  au  fait  in  trigonometry,  made  obscure  even  what  he 
thought  he  already  understood. 


54          TffilUliam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfterap 

In  the  Transactions  of  the  Union  Society,  printed  in 
1834,  Thackeray  is  mentioned  as  a  speaker  in  a  list  that 
includes  Charles  Buller,  Kemble,  Sterling,  Blakesley, 
Milnes,  Trench,  Praed,  Hallam,  Venables,  Alford,  King- 
lake,  and,  above  all,  Sunderland,  who  was  the  orator, 
and,  in  the  belief  of  the  undergraduates,  destined  to  be 
the  greatest  of  them  all, — his  promising  career,  it  is  well 
known,  was  unhappily  cut  short  by  insanity.  Thackeray 
spoke  at  the  Union  upon  the  character  of  Napoleon,  and 
with  so  little  success  that  he  wrote  home  of  his  intention 
never  to  speak  again.  However,  he  subsequently  deter- 
mined to  venture,  when  Shelley  was  the  subject  of 
debate;  but  the  meeting  was  adjourned  for  a  few  days, 
and  I  do  not  think  it  is  known  if  he  ultimately  delivered 
his  speech. 

Shelley  was  the  rage  at  Cambridge  then,  while  Byron 
was  the  ideal  of  the  undergraduates  of  Oxford.  Sir  Francis 
Doyle  and  Mr.  Gladstone  at  Oxford  invited  a  deputa- 
tion from  Cambridge  to  discuss  the  supremacy  of  these 
poets,  and  Hallam,  Milnes,  and  Sunderland  were  deputed 
to  maintain  the  fame  of  Shelley.  Thackeray  wrote  that 
he  would  bring  with  him,  when  he  came  home,  Shelley's 
Revolt  of  Islam,  which  he  thought  "a  most  beautiful 
poem — though  the  story  is  absurd,  and  the  republican 
sentiments  conveyed  in  it,  if  possible,  more  absurd." 
But  soon  after  he  altered  his  mind ;  he  would  not  take 
the  poem  with  him  to  Larkbeare,  for  "it  is  an  odd  kind 
of  book,  containing  poetry  that  would  induce  me  to  read 
it  through,  and  sentiments  which  might  strongly  incline 
one  to  throw  it  in  the  fire." 

Shelley  had,  nevertheless,  a  certain  interest  for  him, 
since,  when  the  scheme  of  a  magazine  to  be  called  the 
Chimera  was  mooted  at  Cambridge,  he  volunteered — and 


St  Cambridge  55 

actually  wrote  at  Paris  during  the  Long  Vacation  in 
1829 — An  Essay  on  Shelley.  But  there  seems  to  be  no 
trace  of  publication  of  either  essay  or  magazine. 

At  Cambridge  Thackeray  contributed  to  a  little 
weekly  paper  called  The  Snob,  a  literary  and  scientific 
journal  not  conducted  by  members  of  the  University. 

In  1829  the  subject  of  the  English  poem  for  the 
Chancellor's  medal  was  the  singularly  unpromising  one 
of  Timbuctoo — the  medal  was  awarded  to  an  undergrad- 
uate of  Trinity  College,  by  name  Alfred  Tennyson — and 
Thackeray  sent  to  the  Snob  a  poem  which  (so  runs  his 
letter  to  the  Editor)  "was  unluckily  not  finished  on  the 
day  appointed  for  delivery  of  the  several  copies  of  verses 
on  "Timbuctoo."  The  poem  opens  as  follows: 

"  In  Africa  (a  quarter  of  the  world) 
Men's  skins  are  black,  their  hair  is  crisp  and  curled 
And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public  view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo." 

A  description  then  follows  of  the  fauna  and  flora  of 
Timbuctoo,  of  a  lion-hunt,  of  the  home-life  of  the  inhab- 
itants and  the  misery  caused  by  the  introduction  of  slav- 
ery ;  and  the  whole  winds  up  with  a  prophecy  of  dire 
disaster  to  Europe. 

"The  day  shall  come  when  Albion's  self  shall  feel 
Stern  Afric's  wrath  and  writhe  'neath  Afric's  steel. 
I  see  her  tribes  the  hill  of  glory  mount, 
And  sell  their  sugars  on  their  own  account, 
While  round  her  throne  the  prostrate  nations  come 
Sue  for  her  rice  and  barter  for  her  rum." 

The  skit,  read  with  the  notes  and  elucidations  pro- 
vided by  the  author,  is  amusing  enough,  though  it  would 
be  difficult  to  discover  in  it  any  promise  of  his  future 
greatness.  But  whatever  may  be  thought  now  among  his 
companions  at  Cambridge,  "Timbuctoo  received  much 


56          William  /l&afeepeace 

laud,"  as  Thackeray  wrote  to  his  mother,  adding  naively: 
"I  could  not  help  finding  out  that  I  was  very  fond  of 
this  same  praise.  The  men  knew  not  the  author,  but 
praised  the  poem;  how  eagerly  I  sucked  it  in.  All  is 
vanity!" 

Thus  even  at  eighteen  he  piped  the  tune  that  he  was 
to  sing  in  such  magnificent  tones  in  after-life.  Note, 
too,  the  name  of  the  paper — The  Snob! 

In  his  correspondence  from  Cambridge  there  are  many 
references  to  the  little  weekly.  On  the  23rd  of  May, 
1829,  he  wrote:  "On  Monday  night  myself  and  the 
Editor  of  the  Snob  sat  down  to  write  the  Snob  for  next 
Thursday.  We  began  at  nine  and  finished  at  two ;  but 
I  was  so  afflicted  with  laughter  that  I  came  away  quite 
ill." 

A  few  days  later  he  tells  his  parents  that  "the  Snob 
goeth  on  and  prospereth.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  my  wit 
in  the  shape  of  an  advertisement  therein  inserted : — 
Sidney  Sussex  College.  Wanted,  a  few  freshmen. 
Apply  at  the  Butteries,  where  the  smallest  contribution 
will  be  gratefully  received."  From  yet  another  letter  it 
appears  that  Guinivere  verses,  written  over  the  signature 
of  "A  Literary  Snob,"  are  his;  and  several  critics  have 
ascribed  to  him  the  Ramsbottom  Papers,  and  the  Extract 
from  a  Letter  from  one  in  Cambridge  to  one  in  Town.  It 
is  possible,  too,  that  he  may  have  written  a  rhyming 
letter  published  in  No.  3  over  the  signature  of  "T.  T."* 

The  first  number  of  the  Snob  appeared  on  April  9, 
and  the  eleventh  and  last  bore  the  date  of  June  18.  It 
had  been  intended  by  Thackeray  and  others  after  the 
long  vacation  to  set  up  a  periodical  of  a  higher  class,  but 

*The  letters  in  the  Constitutional  and  the  Corsair  were  also 
signed  "  T.  T." 


Bt  Cambri&oe  57 

the  intention  fell  through,  and  the  Snob  was  revived  in 
November  under  the  new  name  of  the  Gownsman.  To 
this  he  contributed  Fdbea  Tadpole  (air:  I'd  be  a  But- 
ter fly}."  Probably  From  Anacreon,  and  the  continued 
Ramsbottom  Papers  were  from  his  pen;  and  Anthony 
Trollope  has  suggested  also  the  dedication : 

"To  all  Proctors,  past,  present,  and  future — 
Whose  taste  it  is  our  privilege  to  follow, 
Whose  virtue  it  is  our  duty  to  imitate, 
Whose  presence  it  is  our  interest  to  avoid." 

I  venture  to  say,  in  spite  of  Anthony  Trollope's  con- 
trary belief,  that  Thackeray's  university  career  did  him 
an  immense  amount  of  good.  Enough  has  .been  said  of 
the  course  of  his  studies  to  show  that,  without  being 
carried  to  any  great  depths,  he  obtained  a  good  general 
knowledge  of  many  things  which  proved  to  be  of  great 
use  to  him  in  after  life.  Indeed,  Thackeray  himself 
never  underrated  the  value  of  a  classical  education ;  and 
once  when  "Eothen"  Kinglake  was  laughing  at  the  five 
or  six  years'  enforced  composition  in  Latin  to  which  he 
had  been  subjected  at  Eton,  he  said  to  him,  "It  has 
made  you  what  you  are," 

But  another  great  benefit  was  derived  from  Thack- 
eray's stay  at  Cambridge,  for  (as  Mr.  Richmond  Ritchie 
has  pointed  out)  "Cambridge  fixed  his  social  status. 
Though  afterwards  he  was  to  consort  with  Bohemians 
and  other  strange  acquaintances  into  which  a  man  is 
forced  by  adversity,  he  was  never  a  Bohemian  and 
always  faithful  to  the  traditions  of  the  class  in  which  he 
was  born  and  bred."  There  can  be  no  question  as  to 
the  truth  of  this;  it  is  beyond  all  cavil  or  argument. 
The  university  life  gave  the  lad  the  ballast  necessary  to 
carry  him  safely  through  his  troubles  by  imbuing  him 


5§          William  flDafeepeace  TTbacfcerag 

with  a  liking  for  the  society  of  his  equals,  and  a  great 
dislike  to  everything  that  smacked  of  vulgarity. 

Sir  Walter  Besant  and  many  others,  who  are  unable 
to  understand  how  Thackeray  could  have  known  enough 
of  the  manner  of  the  Upper  Ten  to  be  able  to  depict 
Society  (the  Society  with  the  capital  S)  in  Vanity 
Fair,  since,  they  insist,  it  was  only  on  the  success  of 
that  book  that  he  obtained  the  entree  into  those  exclu- 
sive circles,  forget  that  Thackeray  was  the  son  of  well- 
to-do  parents  of  the  upper  stratum  of  the  middle  classes, 
that  he  had  a  public-school  and  university  education,  and 
that,  at  Cambridge,  he  met  and  made  lasting  friendships 
with  Edward  Fitzgerald,  Monckton  Milnes,  W.  H. 
Thompson,  R.  C.  Trench,  John  Sterling,  Alfred  Tenny- 
son, James  Spedding,  John  Allen,  William  Brookfield, 
and  many  others  whose  names  are  now  well  known — 
several  of  whom  were  among  the  choice  and  master 
spirits  of  the  time,  and  all  gentlemen  of  good  social 
standing.  We  should  ever  bear  in  mind  the  dictum  of 
Walter  Bagehot,  that  the  value  of  an  English  University 
training  consists  more  in  the  youthful  friendships  there 
formed  with  fellow-students  and  contemporaries  than  in 
the  actual  studies  and  examinations. 


CHAPTER   V 

IN   GERMANY 


CHAPTER   V 

IN   GERMANY 

IT  was  arranged  that,  after  coming  down  from  Trinity, 
Thackeray  should  travel  for  a  couple  of  years,  and 
with  this  end  in  view  he  took  a  course  of  German  lessons 
from  a  Herr  Troppeneger,  in  London.  During  this  con- 
tinental tour  he  visited  many  places  of  interest,  and 
spent  several  months  at  Dresden  and  Rome  and  Paris 
and  Weimar.  Commencing  at  Godesberg,  as,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  everybody  did  in  those  days,  he  stayed 
there  with  a  friend  for  a  month,  improving  his  knowledge 
of  the  language  and  reading — or  at  least  buying — Schil- 
ler's works.  He  spent  some  time,  too,  in  the  studios  at 
Paris,  and  these  experiences  and  those  of  later  years 
have  been  reproduced  in  The  Newcomes  and  Philip,  just 
as  the  German  travels  have  borne  fruit  in  Vanity  Fair 
and  other  stories. 

Weimar,  however,  is  the  place  around  which  is  cen- 
tered most  of  the  interest  of  these  early  travels.  Dr. 
Norman  McLeod  was  there,  and  also  his  friend  and  fel- 
low-student at  Trinity,  W.  C.  Lettson,  since  Her 
Majesty's  charge"  d'affaires  at  Uruguay,  but  then 
attached  to  the  suite  of  the  English  Minister  at  Weimar; 
and  the  three  young  men  learnt  German  together  from 
Dr.  Weissenborne. 

He  must  have  arrived  there  not  later  than  the  end  of 
August  or  the  beginning  of  September.  In  the  last 

61 


62  William  /iDafcepeace 

week  of  the  latter  month  he  was  presented  at  Court, 
where  the  etiquette,  in  his  opinion,  was  absurdly  cere- 
monious. The  lack  of  a  uniform  in  which  to  appear 
seems  to  have  worried  him ;  and  he  wrote  home  asking 
for  a  cornetcy  in  Sir  John  Kennaway's  yeomanry,  as  he 
objected  to  the  makeshift  dress  of  black  coat,  waistcoat, 
and  (trousers  cut  down  into)  breeches,  in  which  he 
declared  he  looked  half  footman,  half  Methodist  parson. 

He  liked  Weimar  so  well  that  in  December  he  said 
that  he  would  much  appreciate  an  attac/ie'-ship  which 
would  enable  him  to  settle  down  there,  where  I  think 
he  must  have  spent  some  of  the  happiest  months  of  his 
life.  He  wrote  during  his  stay  there,  and  read  too.  He 
translated  Korner,  and  promised  to  send  his  mother  two 
pieces — though  whether  they  were  prose  or  verse  I  do 
not  know.  He  read  Faust,  but  without  much  enthusi- 
asm. "Of  course  I  am  delighted,"  he  said,  "but  not 
to  that  degree  I  expected."  For  Schiller,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  unbounded  admiration.  "I  have  been 
reading  Shakespeare  in  German,"  he  wrote;  "if  I  could 
ever  do  the  same  for  Schiller  in  English,  I  should  be 
proud  of  having  conferred  a  benefit  on  my  country. 
I  do  believe  him  to  be,  after  Shakspere,  'the 
poet';  "  and  it  was,  I  think,  Thackeray  who,  on  being 
told  that  some  one  had  translated  Wilhelm  Tell  into 
English,  and  had  bettered  the  drama  in  the  translation, 
replied  that  he  held  the  latter  process  to  be  quite  super- 
fluous. 

As,  on  the  ground  of  merit,  nothing  that  Schiller  ever 
wrote — not  Wilhelm  Tell,  or  Maria  Stuart,  not  even  the 
magnificent  Wallenstein — can  bear  comparison  with 
Goethe's  masterpiece — the  masterpiece  of  German  litera- 
ture— it  is  necessary  to  seek  some  other  reason  for  the 


M£L©®D 


SJJ2 


Hn  Germans  63 

young  Englishman's  preference  for  the  lesser  genius.  I 
believe  the  solution  of  the  problem  is  to  be  found  in  the 
fact  that  Faust  is,  in  its  very  essence,  metaphysical,  while 
the  predominant  feature  of  Tell  is  love  of  home,  which 
latter  quality  appealed  to  Thackeray,  while  the  former 
made  little  impression  on  him.  This  will  be  found  to  be 
only  one  of  many  instances  in  which  his  judgment  came 
from  his  heart,  and  not  from  his  intellect ;  and  remember- 
ing this,  it  is  all  the  more  remarkable  to  note  how  the 
majority  of  his  criticisms  in  art  and  literature  have  been 
accepted  by  the  critics  of  our  generation. 

He  had  his  flirtations;  he  laughingly  wrote  to  his 
mother  about  a  certain  mademoiselle  whom  he  adored, 
and  whom  a  gentleman  of  the  Guards,  with  his  magnifi- 
cent waistcoats  and  his  ten  thousand  a  year,  took  away 
from  him.  He  bemoaned  his  fate  by  merrily  translating 
Schiller:— 

"  The  world  is  empty, 
This  heart  is  dead, 
Its  hopes  and  its  ashes 
Forever  are  fled." 

Here,  too,  he  may  have  met  a  Miss  Lowe,  who,  with 
the  aid  of  her  father  and  fiance",  swindled  him;  and  a 
Dorothea,  for  whom  he  learnt  to  dance,  and  did  dance 
with  her  on  the  slippery  floor — aye,  and  fell  too.  "O 
Dorothea!  you  can't  forgive  me — you  oughtn't  to  for- 
give me;  but  I  loved  you  madly  still.  My  next  flame 
was  Ottilia."  Five-and-twenty  years  after,  when  he 
revisited  the  town,  he  pointed  out  the  house  where  Frau 
von  X.  (presumably  Dorothea's  mother)  used  to  live. 
"At  Venice,  a  year  or  two  after  our  visit  to  Weimar," 
Mrs.  Ritchie  has  recorded,  in  the  charming  Chapters 
from  Some  Unwritten  Memoirs,  ' '  we  were  breakfasting  at 


64          William  flDafcepeace  Ubacfcerag 

a  long  table,  where  a  fat  lady  also  sat  a  little  way  off, 
with  a  pale,  fat  little  boy  beside  her.  She  was  stout, 
she  was  dressed  in  light  green,  she  was  silent,  she  was 
eating  an  egg.  The  sala  of  the  great  marble  hotel  was 
shaded  from  the  blaze  of  sunshine,  but  streaky  gleams 
shot  across  the  dim  hall,  falling  in  on  the  palms  and  the 
orange-trees  beyond  the  lady,  who  gravely  shifted  her 
place  as  the  sunlight  dazzled  her.  Our  own  meal  was 
also  spread,  and  my  sister  and  I  were  only  waiting  for 
my  father  to  begin.  He  came  in  presently,  saying  he 
had  been  looking  at  the  guest-book  in  the  outer  hall,  and 
he  had  seen  a  name  which  interested  him  very  much. 
'Frau  von  Z.,  geboren  von  X.  It  must  be  Amalia! 
She  must  be  here — in  the  hotel, '  he  said ;  and  as  he 
spoke  he  asked  a  waiter  whether  Madame  von  Z.  was 
still  in  the  hotel.  'I  believe  that  is  Madame  von  Z.,' 
said  the  waiter,  pointing  to  the  fat  lady.  The  lady 
looked  up,  and  then  went  on  with  her  egg,  and  my  poor 
father  turned  away,  saying  in  a  low,  overwhelmed  voice, 
1  That  Amalia!  That  cannot  be  Amalia!'  I  could  not 
understand  his  silence,  his  discomposure.  'Aren't  you 
going  to  speak  to  her?  Oh,  please  do  go  and  speak  to 
her,'  we  both  cried.  'Do  make  sure  if  it  is  Amalia.' 
But  he  shook  his  head.  'I  can't,'  he  said;  'I  had  rather 
not.'  Amalia,  meanwhile,  having  finished  her  egg,  rose 
deliberately,  laid  down  her  napkin,  and  walked  away, 
followed  by  her  little  boy."  Does  not  this  description 
seem  to  recall  Thackeray's  version  of  the  Sorrows  of 
Werther, — 

"Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person 
Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter." 


tin  Germans  65 

The  most  memorable  day  in  Thackeray's  earlier 
years,  and  one  which  he  never  forgot,  was  Wednesday, 
October  20,  1830.  On  that  day  he  wrote  to  his 
mother : — 

"I  saw  for  the  first  time  old  Goethe  to-day;  he  was 
very  kind,  and  received  me  in  rather  a  more  distingut 
manner  than  he  has  used  the  other  Englishmen  here; 
the  old  man  [Goethe  was  eighty-one]  gives  occasion- 
ally a  tea-party  to  which  the  English  and  some  special 
favourites  in  the  town  are  invited ;  he  sent  me  a  sum- 
mons at  twelve.  I  sat  with  him  for  half  an  hour." 

Many  years  later  Thackeray  wrote  again  of  Goethe 
and  the  happy  Weimar-Pumpernickel  days  in  a  letter  to 
George  Henry  Lewes,  published  in  the  Life  of  Goethe, 
which,  though  written  forty-four  years  ago,  is  of  lasting 
interest,  and  calls  for  reproduction  here : — 

"LONDON,  April  28,  1855. 

"DEAR  LEWES, — I  wish  I  had  more  to  tell  you 
regarding  Weimar  and  Goethe.  Five-and-twenty  years 
ago,  at  least  a  score  of  young  English  lads  used  to  live 
at  Weimar  for  study,  for  sport,  or  society.  The  Grand 
Duke  and  Duchess  received  us  with  the  kindliest  hos- 
pitality. The  Court  was  splendid,  but  yet  most  pleas- 
ant and  homely.  We  were  invited  in  our  turns  to  din- 
ners, balls,  and  assemblies  there.  Such  young  men  as 
had  a  right  appeared  in  uniforms,  diplomatic  and  mili- 
tary. Some,  I  remember,  invented  gorgeous  clothing: 
the  kind  old  Hof  Marschall  of  those  days,  M.  de  Spiegel 
(who  had  two  of  the  most  lovely  daughters  eyes  ever 
looked  on),  being  in  no  wise  difficult  as  to  the  admission 
of  these  young  Englanders.  Of  the  winter  nights  we 
used  to  charter  sedan  chairs,  in  which  we  were  carried 
through  the  snow  to  those  pleasant  Court  entertain- 


66          *GGlUliam  flDafcepeace 

ments.  I,  for  my  part,  had  the  good  luck  to  purchase 
Schiller's  sword,  which  formed  a  part  of  my  Court  cos- 
tume, and  still  hangs  in  my  study,  and  puts  me  in  mind 
of  days  of  youth,  the  most  kindly  and  delightful.* 

"We  knew  the  whole  society  of  the  little  city,  and 
but  that  the  young  ladies,  one  and  all,  spoke  admirable 
English,  we  surely  might  have  learned  the  very  best 
German.  The  society  met  constantly.  The  ladies  of 
the  Court  had  their  evenings. 

"The  theatre  was  open  twice  or  thrice  in  the  week, 
where  we  assembled  a  'large  family  party.'  Goethe  had 
retired  from  the  direction,  but  the  great  traditions 
remained  still.  The  theatre  was  admirably  conducted, 
and  besides  the  excellent  Weimar  company,  famous 
actors  and  singers  from  various  parts  of  Germany  per- 
formed Gastrolle  through  the  winter.  In  that  winter  I 
remember  we  had  Ludwig  Devrient  in  Shylock,  Hamlet, 
Falstaff,  and  the  Robbers;  and  the  beautiful  Schroder 
in  Fidelio. 

"After  three-and- twenty  years'  absence,  I  passed  a 
couple  of  summer  days  in  the  well-remembered  place, 
and  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  some  of  the  friends  of 
my  youth.  Madame  de  Goethe  was  there,  and  received 
me  and  my  daughters  with  the  kindness  of  old  days. 
We  drank  tea  in  the  open  air,  at  the  famous  cottage  in 
the  park,  which  still  belongs  to  the  family,  and  had  been 
so  often  inhabited  by  her  illustrious  father. 

"In  1831,  though  he  had  retired  from  the  world, 
Goethe  would  nevertheless  very  kindly  receive  strangers. 
His  daughter-in-law's  tea-table  was  always  spread  for  us. 

*Thackeray  gave  the  sword  to  his  friend  Bayard  Taylor  in  1857 
or  1858,  and  he,  in  his  turn,  bequeathed  it  to  the  Schiller  House  in 
Germany. 


flu  Germany  67 

We  passed  hours  after  hours  there,  and  night  after  night, 
with  the  pleasantest  talk  and  music.  We  read  over  end- 
less novels  and  poems  in  French,  English,  and  German. 
My  delight  in  those  days  was  to  make  caricatures  for 
children.  I  was  touched  to  find  that  they  were  remem- 
bered, and  some  even  kept  until  the  present  time;  and 
very  proud  to  be  told,  as  a  lad,  that  the  great  Goethe 
had  looked  at  some  of  them. 

"He  remained  in  his  private  apartments,  where  only 
a  very  few  privileged  persons  were  admitted ;  but  he 
liked  to  know  all  that  was  happening,  and  interested 
himself  about  all  strangers.  Whenever  a  countenance 
struck  his  fancy,  there  was  an  artist  settled  in  Weimar 
who  made  a  portrait  of  it.  Goethe  had  quite  a  gallery 
of  heads,  in  black  and  white,  taken  by  this  painter.  His 
house  was  all  over  pictures,  drawings,  casts,  statues  and 
medals. 

' '  Of  course  I  remember  very  well  the  perturbation  of 
spirit  with  which,  as  a  lad  of  nineteen,  I  received  the 
long-expected  intimation  that  the  Herr  Geheimerath 
would  see  me  on  such  a  morning.  This  notable  audience 
took  place  in  a  little  ante-chamber  of  his  private  apart- 
ments, covered  all  round  with  antique  casts  and  bas- 
reliefs.  He  was  habited  in  a  long  grey  or  drab  redingot, 
with  a  white  neckcloth,  and  a  red  ribbon  in  his  button- 
hole. He  kept  his  hands  behind  his  back,  just  as  in 
Rauch's  statuette.  His  complexion  was  very  bright, 
clear  and  rosy.  His  eyes  extraordinarily  dark,  piercing 
and  brilliant.*  I  felt  quite  afraid  before  them,  and 
recollect  comparing  them  to  the  eyes  of  the  hero  of  a 

*This  must  have  been  the  effect  of  the  position  in  which  he  sat 
with  regard  to  the  light.  Goethe's  eyes  were  dark  brown,  but  not 
very  dark. — G.  H.  L. 


68          William  flDafcepeace  Ubacfeeras 

certain  romance  called  Melnoth  the  Wanderer,  which  used 
to  alarm  us  boys  thirty  years  ago ;  eyes  of  an  individual 
who  had  made  a  bargain  with  a  Certain  Person,  and  at 
an  extreme  old  age  retained  these  eyes  in  all  their  awful 
splendour.  I  fancied  Goethe  must  have  been  still  more 
handsome  as  an  old  man  than  even  in  the  days  of  his 
youth.  His  voice  was  very  rich  and  sweet.  He  asked 
me  questions  about  myself,  which  I  answered  as  best  I 
could.  I  recollect  I  was  at  first  astonished,  and  then 
somewhat  relieved,  when  I  found  he  spoke  French  with 
not  a  good  accent. 

"Vidi  tantum.  I  saw  him  but  three  times.  Once 
walking  in  the  garden  of  his  house  in  the  Frauenplatz ; 
once  going  to  step  into  his  chariot  on  a  sunshiny  day, 
wearing  a  cap  and  a  cloak  with  a  red  collar.  He  was 
caressing  at  the  time  a  beautiful  little  golden-haired 
granddaughter,  over  whose  sweet  face  the  earth  has  long 
since  closed  too. 

Any  of  us  who  had  books  or  magazines  from  England 
sent  them  to  him,  and  he  examined  them  eagerly. 
Frazer  s  Magazine  had  lately  come  out,  and  I  remember 
he  was  interested  in  those  admirable  outline  portraits 
which  appeared  for  a  while  in  its  pages.  But  there  was 
one,  a  very  ghastly  caricature  of  Mr.  Rogers,  which,  as 
Madame  de  Goethe  told  me,  he  shut  up  and  put  away 
from  him  angrily.  'They  would  make  me  look  like  that,' 
he  said,  though  in  truth  I  could  fancy  nothing  more 
serene,  majestic,  and  healthy  looking  than  the  grand  old 
Goethe. 

"Though  his  sun  was  setting,  the  sky  roundabout 
was  calm  and  bright,  and  that  little  Weimar  illumined 
by  it.  In  every  one  of  those  kind  salons  the  talk  was 
still  of  art  and  letters.  The  theatre,  though  possessing 


fln  Germany  69 

no  very  extraordinary  actors,  was  still  conducted  with  a 
noble  intelligence  and  order.  The  actors  read  books, 
and  were  men  of  letters  and  gentlemen,  holding  a  not 
unkindly  relationship  with  the  Adel.  At  Court  the  con- 
versation was  exceedingly  friendly,  simple  and  polished. 
The  Grand  Duchess  (the  present  Grand  Duchess  Dow- 
ager), a  lady  of  very  remarkable  endowments,  would 
kindly  borrow  our  books  from  us,  lend  us  her  own,  and 
graciously  talk  to  us  young  men  about  our  literary  tastes 
and  pursuits.  In  the  respect  paid  by  this  Court  to  the 
Patriarch  of  letters,  there  was  something  ennobling,  I 
think,  alike  to  the  subject  and  sovereign.  With  a  five- 
and-twenty  years'  experience  since  those  happy  days  of 
which  I  write,  and  an  acquaintance  with  an  immense 
variety  of  humankind,  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  society 
more  simple,  charitable,  courteous,  gentlemanlike,  than 
that  of  the  dear  little  Saxon  city  where  the  good  Schiller 
and  the  great  Goethe  lived  and  lie  buried. 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

It  is  interesting  to  think  of  the  meeting  of  these  two 
men.  The  one  in  his  old  age,  the  other  in  his  youth. 
The  one  famous  beyond  all  living  men,  as  poet,  drama- 
tist, romancist,  and  philosopher;  the  other  only  as  yet 
dreaming  of  becoming  a  famous  artist,  and,  perhaps, 
flushing  with  pleasure  to  think  that  his  host  had 
approved  of  some  of  his  early  drawings  and  "youthful 
caricatures. 

One  cannot  help  wondering  whether  the  aged  and 
illustrious  author  of  Faust  discerned  in  the  English 
youth  of  twenty  the  germs  of  a  greatness  almost  rivalling 
his  own.  Probably  not.  We  know  how  slightingly 


70          TKailliam  flDafcepeace 

Coleridge,  as  an  old  man,  regarded  the  more  than  prom- 
ising juvenile  verse  of  Tennyson.  Rarely  indeed  does 
the  old  world-worn  man  who  has  achieved  fame  and  uni- 
versal recognition  look  upon  the  most  promising  of  the 
aspirants  of  the  new  generation  with  any  sense  of  their 
coming  greatness  or  recognition  of  their  personal  genius. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    MIDDLE  TEMPLE,   GRUB   STREET,  AND  PARIS 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   MIDDLE   TEMPLE,   GRUB  STREET,  AND  PARIS 

IN  the  autumn  of  1831  Thackeray  entered  himself  as 
a  student  at  the  Middle  Temple.  He  had  aban- 
doned all  thought  of  the  Diplomatic  service,  and  though 
he  did  not  look  forward  with  much  pleasure  to  practising 
at  the  Bar,  yet  he  regarded  his  profession  (he  wrote  to 
his  mother)  as  "a  noble  and  tangible  object,  an  honour- 
able calling,  and,  I  trust  in  God,  a  certain  fame." 

He  became  the  pupil  of  the  special  pleader  and  con- 
veyancer, Taprell,  and  took  chambers  at  No.  I,  Hare 
Court,  and,  no  doubt  (as  did  Pendennis  and  Warring- 
ton),  he  and  his  friends,  "after  reading  pretty  hard  of  a 
morning,  and,  I  fear,  not  law  merely,  but  politics  and 
general  history  and  literature,  which  were  as  necessary 
for  the  advancement  and  instruction  of  a  young  man  as 
mere  dry  law,  after  applying  with  tolerable  assiduity  to 
letters,  to  reviews,  to  elemental  books  of  law,  and,  above 
all,  to  the  newspapers,  until  the  hour  of  dinner  was 
drawing  nigh  .  .  .  would  sally  out  upon  the  town 
with  great  spirits  and  appetite,  and  bent  upon  enjoying 
a  merry  night  as  they  had  passed  a  pleasant  forenoon." 
Indeed,  he  confirmed  this  theory  in  a  letter  to  his 
mother:  "I  go  regularly  to  my  pleader's  and  sit  with 
him  until  half- past  five  and  sometimes  six;  then  I  come 
home  and  read  and  dine  till  about  nine  or  past,  when  I  am 
glad  enough  to  go  out  for  an  hour  and  look  at  the 

73 


74          William  /iDafcepeace 

world."  His  only  grievance  at  this  time  seems  to  have 
been  that  his  uncle  Frank,  who  was  very  kind,  would 
ask  him  to  dinner  too  often — three  times  a  week. 

Thackeray  does  not  appear  to  have  overworked  him- 
self. His  diary  and  letters  show  that,  far  rather  than 
study  mere  dry  law,  he  preferred  to  spend  a  day  with 
Charles  Buller,  discussing  poetry  (they  could  not  agree 
upon  the  merits  of  the  poets),  or  to  stroll  with  a  friend 
in  Kensington  Gardens  and  lunch  at  Bayswater.  With 
Maginn,  too,  he  spent  much  time.  It  seems,  from  Mr. 
Blanchard  Jerrold's  account,  that  Father  Prout  in  Paris 
introduced  Dr.  Maginn  to  Thackeray  as  a  possible  editor 
of  a  magazine  which  the  ambitious  young  man  wished 
to  bring  out.  Maginn,  who  was  a  big  man  in  those 
days,  would  not  go  into  the  matter  until  he  had  five 
hundred  pounds — which  may  explain  the  current  tale 
that  Thackeray  lent  him  that  sum.  The  magazine  was 
never  published,  but  the  pair  struck  a  lively  friendship. 
The  doctor  took  Thackeray  to  the  Standard  office  in  the 
spring  of  1832,  where  he  explained  the  mysteries  of 
printing,  and  probably  gave  him  an  object-lesson  in  the 
art  of  leader-writing.  On  the  next  day  he  gave  him 
dinner  at  the  King's  Head — Thackeray's  comment  on 
the  other  guests  is  not  complimentary:  "A  dull  party  of 
low  literary  men."  Maginn  read  Homer  to  him,  and 
pointed  out  beauties  that  the  listener  had  never  per- 
ceived— bound  him  over,  too,  to  read  some  Homer  every 
day.  Thackeray  liked  him  for  his  wit  and  good  feeling, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that,  through  Maginn,  Thackeray 
obtained  his  introduction  to  Fraser's  Magazine. 

During  June  Charles  Buller  was  summoned  by  his 
constituents  at  Liskeard,  Cornwall,  to  come  down  imme- 
diately. Unfortunately,  however,  he  was  too  ill  to 


/^*£'^^/£^^ 


flM&Me  Uemple,  6rub  Street,  ant)  Paris   75 

move,  so  he  deputed  his  brother  Arthur  and  Thackeray 
to  attend.  The  young  men  worked  hard;  they  can- 
vassed farmers,  dined  with  attorneys,  wrote  addresses, 
and  attended  meetings.  One  day,  Thackeray  told  his 
mother,  he  was  riding  for  twelve  hours  canvassing.  He 
found  time,  however,  in  spite  of  the  hard  work,  to 
amuse  himself — to  read  Wallenstein,  to  draw  caricatures, 
and  to  make  a  lifelong  friend  of  Sir  William  Molesworth. 

Thackeray  was  never  a  very  keen  politician,  though 
he  had  decided  views  on  some  subjects,  and  was  inter- 
ested in  and  advocated  certain  Liberal  measures  of  the 
day,  particularly  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  and 
the  introduction  of  the  Ballot,  of  Universal  Suffrage, 
and  some  of  those  other  changes  that  have  come  about 
in  more  recent  years,  but  which  at  the  time  were  thought 
so  dangerous  that  when  a  very  dignified  old  lady  asked 
him  to  dinner  Mrs.  Ritchie  is  convinced  it  was  with  the 
intention  of  remonstrating  with  him  on  these  socialistic 
opinions. 

On  the  1 8th  of  July  he  came  of  age.  Almost  the 
first  step  he  took,  when  he  was  his  own  master,  was  to 
give  up  studying  for  the  Bar.  It  was  a  cold-blooded 
profession  at  best,  he  said,  and  a  good  lawyer  must  think 
of  nothing  all  his  life  long  but  law.  Thackeray  never 
altered  his  opinion — read  an  extract  from  Pendennis: 

"On  the  other  side  of  the  third  landing,  where  Pen 
and  Warrington  lived,  till  long  after  midnight  sits  Mr. 
Paley,  who  took  the  highest  honours,  and  who  is  a  fel- 
low of  his  college,  who  will  sit  and  read  and  note  cases 
until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning;  who  will  rise  at  seven 
and  be  at  the  pleader's  chambers  as  soon  as  they  are 
open,  where  he  will  work  until  an  hour  before  dinner 
time ;  who  will  come  home  from  Hall  and  read  and  note 


76          THUilliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeerap 

cases  again  until  dawn  next  day,  when  perhaps  Mr. 
Arthur  Pendennis  and  his  friend  Mr.  Warrington  are 
returning  from  some  of  their  wild  expeditions.  How 
differently  employed  Mr.  Paley  has  been !  He  has  not 
been  throwing  himself  away :  he  has  only  been  bringing 
a  great  intellect  down  to  the  comprehension  of  a  mean 
subject,  and  in  his  fierce  grasp  of  that,  resolutely  exclud- 
ing from  his  mind  all  higher  thoughts,  all  better  things, 
all  the  wisdom  of  philosophers  and  historians,  all  the 
thoughts  of  the  poets;  all  wit,  fancy,  reflection,  art, 
love,  truth  altogether — so  that  he  may  master  that  enor- 
mous legend  of  the  law,  which  he  proposes  to  gain  his 
livelihood  by  expounding.  Warrington  and  Paley  had 
been  competitors  for  University  honours  in  former  days, 
and  had  run  each  other  hard ;  and  everybody  said  now 
that  the  former  was  wasting  his  time  and  energies,  whilst 
all  people  praised  Paley  for  his  industry.  There  may  be 
doubts,  however,  as  to  which  was  using  his  time  best. 
The  one  could  afford  time  to  think,  and  the  other  never 
could.  The  one  could  have  sympathies  and  do  kind- 
nesses; and  the  other  must  needs  be  always  selfish.  He 
could  not  cultivate  a  friendship  or  do  a  charity,  or 
admire  a  work  of  genius,  or  kindle  at  the  sight  of  beauty 
or  the  sound  of  a  sweet  song — he  had  no  time,  and  no 
eyes  for  anything  but  his  law-books.  All  was  dark  out- 
side his  reading  lamp.  Love  and  Nature  and  Art, 
(which  is  the  expression  of  our  praise  and  sense  of  the 
beautiful  world  of  God),  were  shut  out  from  him.  And 
as  he  turned  off  his  lonely  lamp  at  night,  he  never 
thought  but  that  he  had  spent  the  day  profitably,  and 
went  to  sleep  alike  thankless  and  remorseless.  But  he 
shuddered  when  he  met  his  old  companion  Warrington 


/HMDMe  Uemple,  Grub  Street,  an&  Paris   77 

on  the  stairs,  and  shunned  him  as  one  that  was  doomed 
to  perdition." 

From  Cornwall,  it  seems  he  went  abroad — to  Havre, 
first,  on  his  way  to  Paris,  where  he  arrived  towards  the 
end  of  August.  Here  he  stayed  some  months,  learning 
the  language,  going  into  society,  reading,  and  criticising 
what  he  read,  drawing  too,  and  frequenting  the  theatres 
as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  probably  the  success  of 
his  contributions  to  the  Snob  and  Gownsman  that  inclined 
Thackeray's  thought  towards  a  literary  life.  Charles 
Buller  wrote  for  the  magazines,  and  Thackeray  told  his 
mother,  even  before  he  came  of  age,  that  he  much 
desired  to  follow  his  example,  only  he  was  doubtful  of 
his  own  powers.  How  can  a  man  know  his  own  capa- 
bilities? he  asked.  But  on  the  other  hand,  he  was 
always  comparing  himself  with  Bulwer,  who  was  then  at 
the  zenith  of  his  popularity.  When,  however,  in  Janu- 
ary, 1833,  Major  Carmichael  Smyth,  became  associated 
with  the  production  of  The  National  Standard  and  Journal 
of  Literature,  Science,  Music,  Theatricals,  and  the  Fine  Arts, 
Thackeray,  returning  to  London,  formally  entered  Grub 
Street. 

On  January  5  the  paper  appeared,  under  the  editor- 
ship of  the  then  well-known  ballad  writer,  F.W.N. 
Bayley.  Thackeray  soon  became  a  contributor,  and 
with  the  nineteenth  number  took  over  the  editorship, 
which  change  he  himself  announced  in  the  columns  of 
the  paper: — 

"Under  the  heading  of  the  National  Standard  of  ours, 
there  originally  appeared  the  following:  'Edited  by  F. 
W.  N.  Bayley,  assisted  by  the  most  eminent  men  of  the 
day.'  Now  we  have  cliange"  tout  cela — no,  not  exactly 


78          TOUUfam  flDafeepeace 

tout  cela,  for  we  still  retain  the  assistance  of  a  host  of 
literary  talent;  but  Frederick  William  Naylor  Bayley 
has  gone.  We  have  got  free  of  the  Old  Bailey,  and 
changed  the  governor." 

Some  weeks  later  he  bought  the  paper. 

His  own  early  contributions  included  a  Sonnet  ascribed 
to  W.  Wordsworth  ;  a  review  of  Montgomery's  Angel  of 
Life,  in  which,  by  a  supposed  printer's  error,  ten  or 
twelve  lines  are  quoted  in  inverted  order,  but,  as  Thack- 
eray explained,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  correct  the 
mistake,  as  they  have  just  as  much  sense  one  way  as 
the  other;  a  tale,  The  Devil's  Wager*  which  ends  with 
the  Thackerayesque  touch,  "The  moral  of  this  story  will 
be  given  in  several  successive  numbers,"  .and  some  verses 
addressed  to  Louis  Philippe,  which  are  noticeable  only 
because  of  the  reference  to  'a  snob.' 

"  He  stands  in  Paris  as  you  see  him  before  ye, 
Little  more  than  a  snob — there's  an  end  of  the  story." 

The  late  Mr.  Shepherd,  in  his  bibliography,  stated 
that  Thackeray's  contributions  ceased  on  August  24. 
This  is  obviously  inaccurate,  for  Thackeray  himself,  in  a 
letter  dated  from  the  Garrick  Club,  September  6,  men- 
tioned that  he  was  busily  engaged  in  writing,  puffing, 
and  other  delightul  occupations  for  the  National  Standard, 
which,  he  added,  was  growing  in  repute.  Another  let- 
ter from  Paris,  October  23,  referred  to  A  Tale  of  Wonder 
(National  Standard,  September  13),  translated  from  a 
clever  French  story,  written  in  a  sort  of  patois,  which  he 
had  "sent  to  the  printers  as  soon  as  it  was  finished, 
when  one  does  not  know  good  from  bad,"  and  he  added 

*When  The  De-vifs  Wager  was  reprinted  in  The  Paris  Sketch 
Book,  this  last  sentence  was  changed  to:  "The  moral  of  this  story  will 
be  found  in  the  second  edition." 


Ube  flDffcMe  {Temple,  Grub  Street,  ant)  pads   79 

that  he  had  done  nothing  but  send  a  cheque  to  the 
paper,  which,  however,  was  rapidly  improving,  and 
which  he  hoped  would  form  a  property  that  would  at 
once  provide  him  with  an  occupation  and  an  income! 
During  the  next  three  weeks  the  circulation  only 
increased  by  twenty — at  which  rate  he  said  the  propri- 
etor would  assuredly  be  ruined  before  his  venture  suc- 
ceeded. At  Christmas  he  was  very  busy.  "The  only 
fault  I  find  with  the  National  Standard  is  that  at  the  end 
of  the  day  I  am  but  ill  disposed,  after  writing  and  read- 
ing so  much,  to  read  another  syllable  or  write  another 
line." 

He  was  anxious  that  on  the  New  Year  the  issue 
should  be  particularly  good,  as  he  was  about  to  change 
the  name  to  the  Literary  Standard,  and  to  increase  the 
price  to  threepence,  hoping  that  with  the  alterations  he 
would  do  better. 

The  last  number  for  the  old  year  announced  the 
intended  change  of  name — finally  settled  as  The  National 
Standard  and  Literary  Representative — surely  not  much  of 
an  improvement — and  contained  an  editorial  note,  in 
which  the  paper's  future  success  was  spoken  of  as  cer- 
tain. On  January  18  he  contributed  Father  Gahagan's 
Exhortation,  and  a  long  and  interesting  review  of  the 
Etude sur  Mirabeau,  par  Victor  Hugo,  appeared  in  the  paper, 
dated  February  I ;  which  issue,  in  spite  of  the  confident 
tone  of  the  New  Year's  address,  was  the  last  appearance 
of  the  National  Standard,  etc. 

It  is  generally,  and  I  think  correctly,  believed  that 
Thackeray  related  the  tale  of  this  newspaper  venture  in 
the  pages  of  Lovel,  the  Widower,  when  he  put  the  follow- 
ing words  in  the  mouth  of  Mr.  Batchelor: — 

"They  are  welcome  to  make  merry  at  my  charges  in 


So          "Qdilliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeerap 

respect  of  a  certain  bargain  which  I  made  on  coming  to 
London,  and  in  which,  had  I  been  Moses  Primrose  pur- 
chasing green  spectacles,  I  could  scarcely  have  been 
more  taken  in.  My  Jenkinson  was  an  old  College 
acquaintance,  whom  I  was  idiot  enough  to  believe  a 
respectable  man.  The  fellow  had  a  very  smooth  tongue 
and  a  sleek,  sanctified  exterior.  He  was  rather  a  popular 
preacher,  and  used  to  cry  a  good  deal  in  the  pulpit.  He 
and  a  queer  wine  merchant  and  bill  discounter,  Sherrick 
by  name,  had  somehow  got  possession  of  that  neat  little 
literary  paper,  The  Museum,  which  perhaps  you  remem- 
ber, and  this  eligible  literary  property  my  friend  Honey- 
man,  with  his  wheedling  tongue,  induced  me  to  pur- 
chase. ...  I  daresay  I  gave  myself  airs  as  the 
editor  of  that  confounded  Museum,  and  proposed  to 
educate  the  public  taste,  to  diffuse  morality  and  sound 
literature  throughout  the  nation,  and  to  pocket  a  liberal 
salary  in  return  for  my  services.  I  daresay  I  printed 
my  own  sonnets,  my  own  tragedy,  my  own  verses. 
I  daresay  I  wrote  satirical  articles  in  which  I 
piqued  myself  on  the  fineness  of  my  wit,  and  criticisms, 
got  up  for  the  nonce  out  of  encyclopaedias  and  biograph- 
ical dictionaries,  so  that  I  would  be  actually  astonished 
at  my  own  knowledge.  ...  I  daresay  I  made  a 
gaby  of  myself  to  the  world.  Pray,  my  good  friend, 
hast  thou  never  done  likewise?  If  thou  hast  never 
been  a  fool,  be  sure  thou  wilt  never  be  a  wise  man." 

Thackeray  lost  the  greater  part  of  his  fortune*  very 
soon  after  he  inherited  it,  and  until  recently  there  was 
much  speculation,  and  many  romantic  stories  circulated 

*I  have  read  many  contradictory  accounts,  but  I  believe  his  patri- 
mony could  have  been  invested  to  produce  an  income  of  from  four 
hundred  to  five  hundred  pounds.  Sir  William  Hunter  mentions 
twenty  thousand  pounds  as  the  sum. 


Ube  /HMfcfcle  Uemple,  Grub  Street,  anfc  Paris   81 

as  to  the  manner  in  which  it  was  dispersed.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  truth  is  more  or  less  accurately  known. 

The  National  Standard  cost  a  good  round  sum. 
Social  robbers  eased  him  of  much  more,  as  he  complains 
in  the  Roundabout  Papers,  On  a  Pear  Treey  and  Ogres: 

"When  I  first  came  to  London,  as  innocent  as  Mon- 
sieur Gil  Bias,  I  also  fell  in  with  some  pretty  acquaint- 
ances, found  my  way  into  several  taverns,  and  delivered 
my  purse  to  more  than  one  gallant  gentleman  of  the 
road.  Ogres,  nowadays,  need  not  be  giants  at  all.  .  .  . 
They  go  about  in  society,  slim,  small,  quietly  dressed, 
and  showing  no  especially  great  appetite.  In  my  own 
young  day  there  used  to  be  play  ogres — men  who  would 
devour  a  young  fellow  in  one  sitting,  and  leave  him 
without  a  bit  of  flesh  on  his  bones.  They  were  quiet, 
gentlemanlike  looking  people.  They  got  the  young  man 
into  their  cave,  champagne,  pate"  de  foie  gras,  and  num- 
berless good  things,  were  handed  about;  and  then,  hav- 
ing eaten,  the  young  man  was  devoured  in  his  turn. " 
This  question  was  finally  laid  at  rest  when  Thackeray 
pointed  out  to  Sir  Theodore  Martin  at  Spa,  a  broken- 
down  but  gentlemanly-looking  man  as  "the  original  of 
my  Deuceace.  I  have  not  seen  him  since  the  day  he 
drove  me  down  in  his  cabriolet  to  my  broker's  in  the 
city,  where  I  sold  out  my  patrimony  and  handed  it  over 
to  him."  The  method  of  procedure  employed  to  ease 
Thackeray  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  may  be  read  in  the 
Yellowplush  Papers.  But  Thackeray  bore  his  Deuceace 
no  malice  now,  and  only  remarked  to  his  companion, 
with  pity  in  his  voice,  "Poor  devil!  my  money  doesn't 
seem  to  have  thriven  with  him." 

More  money  went  in  an  Indian  bank  failure,  to  which 
catastrophe  we  probably  owe  the  Bundelkund  Bank  inci- 


82          THUlltam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

dent  in  The  Newcomes;  and  much  of  his  remaining 
capital  was  expended  in  "loans"  to  needy  friends.  All 
through  his  life  Thackeray  gave  away  in  "loans"  and 
gifts  a  far  greater  part  of  his  monies  than  prudence 
advised;  but  then,  Thackeray  was  extravagant  and  a 
cynic,  and  with  him  to  see  distress  and  to  endeavour  to 
alleviate  it  were  two  simultaneous  impressions. 

While  acting  as  Paris  correspondent  of  the  National 
Standard  in  July,  Thackeray  had  written  home:  "I 
have  been  thinking  very  seriously  of  turning  artist.  I  can 
draw  better  than  I  can  do  anything  else,  and  certainly  I 
should  like  it  better  than  any  other  occupation,  as  why 
shouldn't  I?"  When,  therefore,  in  the  winter,  the 
paper  came  to  an  untimely  end,  he  remained  in  Paris — 
his  parents  soon  following — to  devote  himself  in  all  seri- 
ousness to  the  study  of  art. 

Here  he  stayed  with  his  grandmother,  Mrs.  Butler, 
most  of  the  time,  and  with  other  old  ladies,  friends  and 
relations  of  hers,  until  at  last  he  was  able  to  settle  down 
in  rooms  in  the  Rue  des  Beaux  Arts. 

He  spent  all  his  days  in  the  studios,  at  one  time  with 
Brine,  a  well-known  impressionist  artist,  and  at  another 
with  Gros,  a  favourite  pupil  of  David.  He  reported 
himself  satisfied  with  his  progress,  and  hoped  in  a  year, 
if  he  worked  hard,  he  might  paint  something  worth  look- 
ing at ;  but,  he  naively  tells  his  mother,  it  would  require 
at  least  that  time  to  gain  any  readiness  with  his  brush ! 

He  spent  much  time  at  the  picture-galleries,  and  now 
and  then  copied  a  picture — a  Watteau  or  a  Lucas  von 
Leyden  ("a  better  man,  I  think,  than  Albert  Durer,  and 
mayhap  as  great  a  composer  as  Raphael  himself ') ;  and 
Hayward,  the  Edinburgh  reviewer,  in  his  article  on 
Vanity  Fair,  published  in  January,  1848,  says,  "We  well 


/Dibble  Uemple,  (Brub  Street,  anb  Paris    83 

remember  ten  or  twelve  years  ago  finding  him  day  after 
day  engaged  in  copying  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  in  order 
to  qualify  himself  for  his  intended  profession."  But  I 
think  instead  of  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  "thirteen  or 
fourteen"  should  have  been  written. 

In  Paris  he  led  the  life  of  his  companion  students — a 
happy  Bohemian  existence,  that  he  has  graphically 
described  in  his  article  on  The  French  School  of  Painting : — 

"The  life  of  the  young  artist  is  the  easiest,  merriest, 
dirtiest  existence  possible,"  he  wrote.  "He  comes  to 
Paris,  probably  at  sixteen,  from  his  province;  his  parents 
settle  forty  pounds  a  year  on  him,  and  pay  his  master; 
he  establishes  himself  in  the  Pays  Latin,  or  in  the  new 
quarter  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  (which  is  quite  peo- 
pled with  painters) ;  he  arrives  at  his  atelier  at  a  tolerably 
early  hour,  and  labours  among  a  score  of  companions  as 
merry  and  as  poor  as  himself.  Each  gentleman  has  his 
favourite  tobacco-pipe;  and  the  pictures  are  painted  in 
the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  a  din  of  puns  and 
choice  French  slang,  and  a  roar  of  choruses,  of  which 
no  one  can  form  an  idea  who  has  not  been  present  at 
such  an  assembly.  How  he  passes  his  evenings,  at  what 
theatres,  at  what  guinguettes,  in  company  with  what 
seducing  little  milliner,  there  is  no  need  to  say. 
These  young  men  (together  with  the  students  of  sciences) 
comport  themselves  towards  the  sober  citizen  pretty 
much  as  the  German  bursch  towards  the  philister,  or  as 
the  military  man,  during  the  Empire,  did  to  the  pekin : 
— from  the  height  of  their  poverty  they  look  down  upon 
him  with  the  greatest  imaginable  scorn — a  scorn,  I  think, 
by  which  the  citizen  is  dazzled,  for  his  respect  for  the 
Arts  is  intense." 


84          William  flDafeepeace 

Thackeray  waxed  enthusiastic  over  the  opportunities 
that  Paris  affords  the  art  student. 

"To  account  for  a  superiority  over  England, — which  I 
think,  as  regards  art,  is  incontestable — it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  painter's  trade  in  France  is  a  very 
good  one:  better  appreciated,  better  understood,  and 
generally  far  better  paid  than  with  us.  There  are  a 
dozen  excellent  schools  in  which  a  lad  may  enter  here, 
and,  under  the  eye  of  a  practised  master,  learn  the 
apprenticeship  of  his  art  at  an  expense  of  about  ten 
pounds  a  year.  In  England  there  is  no  school  except 
the  Academy,  unless  the  student  can  afford  to  pay  a  very 
large  sum  and  place  himself  under  the  tuition  of  some 
particular  artist.  Here,  a  young  man,  for  his  ten 
pounds,  has  all  sorts  of  accessory  instructions,  models, 
etc.,  and  has  farther,  and  for  nothing,  numberless  incite- 
ments to  study  his  profession  which  are  not  to  be  found 
in  England! — the  streets  are  filled  with  picture  shops, 
the  people  themselves  are  pictures  walking  about;  the 
churches,  theatres,  eating  houses,  concert  rooms,  are 
covered  with  pictures;  Nature  herself  is  inclined  more 
kindly  to  him,  for  the  sky  is  a  thousand  times  more 
bright  and  beautiful,  and  the  sun  shines  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  year.  Add  to  this  incitements  more  selfish, 
but  quite  as  powerful :  a  French  artist  is  paid  very  hand- 
somely ;  for  five  hundred  a  year  is  much  where  all  are 
poor;  and  has  a  rank  in  society  rather  above  his  merits 
than  below  them,  being  caressed  by  host  and  hostesses 
in  places  where  titles  are  laughed  at,  and  a  baron  is 
thought  of  no  more  account  than  a  banker's  clerk." 

And  later  in  the  same  article,  he  declared  : 

"What  a  Paradise  this  gallery  [of  the  Louvre]  is 
for  French  students,  or  foreigners  who  sojourn  in  the 


/HMfcMe  Uemple,  Grub  Street,  ant>  Paris    85 

capital!  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  brethren 
of  the  brush  are  not  usually  supplied  by  Fortune  with 
any  extraordinary  wealth  or  means  of  enjoying  the 
luxuries  with  which  Paris,  more  than  any  other  city, 
abounds.  But  here  they  have  a  luxury  which  surpasses 
all  others,  and  spend  their  days  in  a  palace  which  all  the 
money  of  all  the  Rothschilds  could  not  buy.  They 
sleep,  perhaps,  in  a  garret,  and  dine  in  a  cellar;  but  no 
grandee  in  Europe  has  such  a  drawing-room.  King's 
houses  have  at  best  but  damask  hangings  and  gilt 
cornices.  What  are  these  to  a  wall  covered  with  canvas 
by  Paul  Veronese,  or  a  hundred  yards  of  Rubens? 
Artists  in  England  who  have  a  national  gallery  that 
resembles  a  moderate-sized  gin-shop,  who  may  not  copy 
pictures,  except  under  particular  restrictions,  and  on  rare 
and  particular  days,  may  revel  here  to  their  hearts'  con- 
tent. Here  is  a  room  half-a-mile  long,  with  as  many 
windows  as  Aladdin's  palace,  open  from  sunrise  till  even- 
ing, and  free  to  all  manners  and  all  varieties  of  study: 
the  only  puzzle  to  the  student  is  to  select  the  one  he 
shall  begin  upon,  and  keep  his  eyes  away  from  the  rest." 

Paris  was  Thackeray's  favourite  haunt  all  his  life  long. 
He  visited  it  for  the  first  time  in  1830 — surreptitiously — 
and  recalls  that  visit  more  than  thirty  years  later  in  a 
Roundabout  Paper. 

"I  remember  as  a  boy,"  he  wrote  in  Dessetus,  "at  the 
'Ship'  at  Dover,  (imperante  Carolo  Decimo,)  when,  my 
place  to  London  being  paid,  I  had  but  twelve  shillings 
left  after  a  certain  little  Paris  expedition  (about  which 
my  benighted  parents  never  knew  anything),  ordering 
for  dinner  a  whiting,  a  beef-steak,  and  a  glass  of  negus, 
and  the  bill  was,  dinner  seven  shillings,  a  glass  of  negus 
two  shillings,  waiter  sixpence,  and  only  half-a-crown  left, 


86          "Cdtllfam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfcerap 

as  I  was  a  sinner,  for  the  guard  and  coachman  on  the 
way  to  London!  And  I  was  a  sinner.  I  had  gone 
without  leave.  What  a  long  dreary,  guilty  four  hours' 
journey  it  was,  from  Paris  to  Calais,  I  remember.  .  .  . 
I  met  my  college  tutor  only  yesterday.  We  were  travel- 
ling, and  stopped  at  the  same  hotel.  He  had  the  very 
next  room  to  mine.  After  he  had  gone  into  his  apart- 
ment, having  shaken  me  quite  kindly  by  the  hand,  I  felt 
inclined  to  knock  at  his  door  and  say  '  Dr.  Bentley,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  do  you  remember  when  I  was  going 
down  at  the  Easter  vacation  in  1830,  you  asked  me  where 
I  was  going  to  spend  my  vacation?  And  I  said,  with  my 
friend  Slingsby  in  Huntingdonshire.  Well,  sir,  I  grieve 
to  have  to  confess  that  I  told  you  a  fib.  I  had  got 
twenty  pounds  and  was  going  for  a  lark  to  Paris,  where 
my  friend  Edwards  was  staying.'  .  .  .  The  doctor 
will  read  it,  for  I  did  not  wake  him  up." 

He  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  leisure,  and,  indeed,  did 
much  of  his  writing  there.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 
social  gaieties  of  Parisian  life,  and  loved  to  mix  with  the 
gifted  and  artistic  Bohemian  lions. 

Even  in  the  early  thirties  he  had  a  large  acquaintance 
in  all  ranks  of  society,  and  was  much  sought  after.  He 
was  especially  a  welcome  guest  at  Mrs.  Crowe's,  and  was 
a  friend  of  all  her  children,  Amy,  Eyre,  and  Joseph.  He 
is  mentioned  in  the  latter's  Reminiscences:  "Once  a  week, 
on  Saturdays,  my  mother  received  guests  in  the  evening. 
My  mother  at  her  evenings  made  every  one  bright  by 
playing  Irish  jigs  or  Scotch  reels,  or  accompanying  on 
the  piano  Methfessel's  students'  songs  and  choruses,  the 
supreme  enjoyment  being  a  song  from  Thackeray." 

In  1835  he  met  with  an  accident  that  might  have  had 
very  serious  consequences,  but  any  mention  of  which  is 


ADffcMe  Uemple,  <3rub  Street,  an&  Paris    87 

only  to  be  found  in  Mr.  T.  A.  Trollope's  Reminiscences. 
A  picnic  was  organised  for  a  visit  to  the  woods  of  Mont- 
morenci,  where  the  young  people,  including  Thackeray, 
thought  the  day  would  not  be  passed  properly  without  a 
ride  on  the  famous  donkeys.  Half-a-dozen  of  the  party 
started,  and  urged  their  animals  into  places  and  paces  to 
which  they  were  quite  unused.  Consequent  struggles 
between  men  and  beasts,  and  Thackeray's  donkey  tossed 
his  rider  over  his  head,  depositing  him  upon  a  heap  of 
newly-broken  stones.  The  fall  was  so  severe  that  it  was 
thought  the  picnic  would  have  a  tragic  ending.  Soon, 
however,  it  was  ascertained  that  no  serious  injury  had 
been  done — but  Thackeray  bore  the  mark  of  the  accident 
to  his  dying  day. 

His  natural  powers  of  observation  were  not,  however, 
dimmed  by  social  pleasures.  He  studied  the  political, 
social,  literary,  and  artistic  manners  and  customs  of  the 
country,  expressing  his  opinions  in  his  private  letters, 
and  later  in  his  writings  for  the  Constitutional,  and  in  the 
articles  reprinted  in  the  Paris  Sketch-Book.  He  passed 
summary  judgment  upon  matters  that  a  great  statesman 
or  philosopher  would  only  think  of  in  fear  and  hesitation. 
The  Thackeray  of  this  time  was  the  young  Pendennis  of 
whom  it  is  written : — 

"The  courage  of  young  critics  is  prodigious:  they 
clamber  up  to  the  judgment  seat,  and,  with  scarce  a 
hesitation,  give  their  opinion  upon  works  the  most  intri- 
cate or  profound.  Had  Macaulay's  history  or  Her- 
schel's  astronomy  been  put  before  Pen  at  this  period, 
he  would  have  looked  through  the  volumes,  meditated 
his  opinion  over  a  cigar,  and  signified  his  august  approval 
of  either  author,  as  if  the  critic  had  been  their  born 
superior,  and  indulgent  master  and  patron.  By  the  help 


88          TKHilltam  /iDafeepeace 

of  the  Biographic  Universelle  or  the  British  Museum,  he 
would  be  able  to  take  a  rapid  rtsumt of  a  historical  period, 
and  allude  to  names,  dates,  and  facts,  in  such  a  masterly, 
easy  way,  as  to  astonish  his  mamma  at  home,  who 
wondered  where  her  boy  could  have  acquired  such  a 
prodigious  store  of  reading,  and  himself,  too,  when  he 
came  to  read  over  his  articles  two  or  three  months  after 
they  had  been  composed,  and  when  he  had  forgotten  the 
subject  and  the  books  which  he  had  consulted.  At  that 
period  of  his  life  Mr.  Pen  owns  that  he  would  not  have 
hesitated,  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice,  to  pass  an  opin- 
ion upon  the  greatest  scholars,  or  to  give  a  judgment 
upon  the  encyclopaedia." 

Yet  many  of  the  great  novelist's  decisions  have  coin- 
cided with  those  pronounced  in  later  years  by  more 
qualified  judges. 

Thackeray  was  not  destined  to  become  a  painter. 
Fortunately  for  the  greater  public,  as  well  as  for  himself, 
he  was  driven  by  circumstances  to  the  profession  of 
letters. 


CHAPTER   VII 

JOURNALISM   AND   MARRIAGE 


CHAPTER   VII 

JOURNALISM   AND   MARRIAGE 

IN  1836  Thackeray  returned  to  London  to  settle  the 
preliminaries  of  a  scheme  for  establishing  a  daily 
newspaper  projected  by  his  stepfather.  Major  Smyth 
had  chosen  the  moment  when  the  old  newspaper  tax 
was  about  to  be  much  reduced.  It  was  proposed  to 
form  a  small  joint-stock  company,  with  the  Major  as 
chairman,  to  be  registered  as  the  Metropolitan  Newspaper 
Company,  with  a  capital  of  ^60,000  in  six  thousand 
shares  of  £10  each.  To  this  end  a  respectable  paper 
(with  a  small  and  ever-decreasing  circulation)  entitled 
The  Public  Ledger  was  bought.  The  first  number,  pro- 
duced under  the  auspices  of  the  company  as  the  Consti- 
tutional and  Public  Ledger,  and  printed  by  Robert  Dyer, 
of  162  Fleet  Street,  was  issued  on  September  15,  1836, 
when  the  stamp  duty  on  newspapers  was  reduced. 

Laman  Blanchard  was  appointed  editor,  and  Thack- 
eray Paris  correspondent.  Its  politics  were  radical,  or 
what  was  called  radical  in  those  days,  and  it  advocated 
the  ballot,  triennial  parliaments,  complete  freedom  of 
the  press,  and  religious  liberty  and  equality.  Joseph 
Hume,  George  Grote,  George  Evans,  Charles  Buller, 
William  Ewart,  Sir  William  Molesworth,  John  Arthur 
Roebuck,  and  other  leaders  of  the  advanced  party, 
promised  to  support  the  new  journal.  Thackeray's 
Paris  letters,  signed  T.  T.,  began  to  appear  on  Septem- 

91 


92          TKHilliam  flDaftepeace 

ber  27.  They  are  very  meagre  and  bare,  and  have  abso- 
lutely no  interest  at  all  for  us  now;  but  they  at  least 
show,  as  we  expect  them  to  do,  a  great  dislike  to  the 
government  of  July.  There  are  in  all  forty-four  letters, 
the  last  appearing  on  February  18  (1837),  shortly  after 
which  Thackeray  came  to  town  to  assist  at  a  meeting 
called  to  discuss  the  paper's  finances,  which  were  in  a 
very  precarious  condition — when  the  paper,  which,  on 
March  I,  had  been  increased  from  six  to  seven  columns 
on  each  of  its  four  pages,  was  now  reduced  to  its  former 
dimensions,  though  the  price  still  remained  fivepence. 
The  Constitutional  dragged  on  an  almost  saleless  exist- 
ence until  July  I,  when  the  last  number  (249)  appeared, 
with  a  black  border  for  the  death  of  the  king,  and  an 
announcement,  probably  written  by  Thackeray  himself, 
explaining  the  cause  of  the  failure  of  the  paper. 

"The  adverse  circumstances  have  been  various,"  he 
wrote.  "In  the  philosophy  of  ill-luck  it  may  be  laid 
down  as  a  principle  that  every  point  of  discouragement 
tends  to  one  common  centre  of  defeat. 

"When  the  fates  do  concur  in  one's  discomfiture,  their 
unanimity  is  wonderful.  So  has  it  happened  in  the  case 
of  the  Constitutional. 

"In  the  first  place  a  delay  of  some  months,  conse- 
quent upon  the  postponement  of  the  newspaper  stamp 
reduction,  operated  on  the  minds  of  many  who  were 
originally  parties  to  the  enterprise.  In  the  next  the 
majority  of  those  who  remained  faithful  were  wholly 
inexperienced  in  the  art  and  practical  workings  of  an 
important  daily  journal.  In  the  third,  and  consequent 
upon  the  other  two,  there  was  the  want  of  those  abun- 
dant means,  and  of  that  wise  application  of  resources, 
without  which  no  efficient  organ  of  the  interests  of  any 


Sournalism  anfc  Carriage  93 

class  of  men — to  say  nothing  of  the  interests  of  the  first 
and  greatest  class,  whose  welfare  has  been  our  dearest 
aim  and  most  constant  object — can  be  successfully  estab- 
lished. 

"Then  came  further  misgivings  on  the  part  of  friends, 
and  the  delusive  undertakings  of  friends  in  disunion." 

And  so  the  Constitutional  went  down,  and  in  the 
wreck  was  lost  most  of  the  fortune  of  Major  Smyth,  and 
all  that  was  left  of  Thackeray's  patrimony;  for,  though 
nominally  a  joint-stock  company,  the  major  and  his  step- 
son were  such  large  shareholders  that  they  practically 
owned  the  paper.* 

Henry  Reeve,  the  famous  editor  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  wrote  [Diary,  January  16,  1836]: — 

"That  excellent  and  facetious  being  .  .  .  has 
fallen  in  love  and  talks  of  being  married  in  less  than 
twenty  years.  What  is  there  so  affecting  as  matrimony ! 
I  dined  yesterday  with  his  object,  who  is  a  nice,  simple, 
girlish  girl;  a  niece  of  old  Colonel  Shawe,  whom  one 
always  meets  at  the  Sterling's."  Early  in  the  Constitu- 
tional days,  on  August  20,  1836,  Thackeray  married 
Isabella  Gethen  Creagh  Shawe,  daughter  of  Colonel 
Matthew  Shawe;  her  mother  was  a  Creagh. 

[The  following  is  an  extract  from  the  "Register 
Book  of  Marriages  in  the  house  of  the  British  Ambassa- 
dor in  Paris" : — 

"William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  of  the  Parish  of  St. 

*Even  the  failure  of  both  his  newspaper  ventures  did  not  damp 
Thackeray's  ardour.  About  two  years  later,  writing  from  13,  Great 
Coram  Street,  he  asks  Jordan,  "  Is  it  fair  to  ask  whether  the  Literary 
Gazette  is  for  sale?  I  should  like  to  treat,  and  thought  it  best  to 
apply  to  the  fountain  head." 

During  1840  he  wrote  to  his  mother  that  he  was  about  to  bring 
out,  on  his  own  account,  a  weekly  paper  called  the  Foolscap  Library, 
which  he  laughingly  adds  will  be  so  successful  that  he  will  not  share 
the  profits  with  any  bookseller. 


94          William  flDafeepeace 

John  Paddington,  in  the  County  of  Middlesex  Batchelor 
and  Isabella  Getkin  Eneagh  Shawe*  of  the  Parish  of 
Donerial  in  the  County  of  Cork  Spinster  and  a  Minor  was 
married  in  this  House  with  the  consent  of  her  mother 
Isabella  G.  Shawe  this  twentieth  day  of  August  in  the 
year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty-six.  By  me 
M.  H.  Luscombe,  Bishop  and  Chaplain.  This  marriage 
was  solemnised  between  us  W.  M.  Thackeray,  I.  G.  E. 
Shawe,  in  the  presence  of  V.  Spencer,  I.  G.  Shawe, 
senior,  J.  W.  Lemaire."] 

Thackeray  had  met  Miss  Shawe  at  his  grandmother's, 
and  (he  told  his  eldest  daughter)  he  lost  his  heart  to  her 
when  he  heard  her  sing.  He  was  five-and-twenty  now, 
but  entirely  dependent  upon  his  salary  as  Paris  corres- 
pondent of  the  Constitutional.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the 
future,  and  would  never  admit  the  imprudence  of  the 
step  he  had  taken.  In  1849  ^e  told  Mrs.  Brookfield 
how  much  more  he  admired  a  friend  of  his  after  "he 
flung  up  his  fellow  and  tutorship  at  Cambridge  in  order 
to  marry  on  nothing  a  year;"  and  twenty  years  after  his 
marriage  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Synge,  who  was  then  about  to 
commit  matrimony:  "I  married  at  your  age  with  .£400 
paid  by  a  newspaper  which  failed  six  months  afterwards, 
and  always  love  to  hear  of  a  young  fellow  testing  his 
fortune  bravely  in  that  way,  .  .  .  though  my 
marriage  was  a  wreck,  as  you  know,  I  would  do  it  again, 
for  behold,  Love  is  the  crown  and  completion  of  all 
earthly  good." 

The  young  couple  settled  in  Paris  in  the  Rue  St. 
Augustine,  and  it  is  especially  interesting  to  those  who 
have  read  the  ballad  of  Bouillabaisse  to  know  that  the 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs,  with  its  restaurant,  was 

*This  name  should  be  Isabella  Gethen  Creagh  Shawe. 


Sournalfsm  anfc  Carriage  95 

quite  close.  When  they  came  to  London  in  1834  they 
stayed  with  Major  and  Mrs.  Smyth  in  Albion  Street, 
Hyde  Park,  where  their  eldest  daughter,  Anne  Isabella — 
now  Mrs.  Ritchie — was  born  in  1838.  Afterwards  they 
moved  to  Great  Coram  Street,  where  John  Leech  and 
Charles  Keene  were  living  at  the  time.  Here  they  had 
another  child,  who  died  in  infancy.  How  greatly  he 
regretted  this  loss  readers  of  The  Great  Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond will  be  able  to  estimate. 

"The  marriage  was  a  very  happy  one,"  we  are  told, 
"and  in  spite  of  the  failure  of  the  Constitutional,  work 
was  abundant  and  the  future  promising." 

It  is  into  particulars  of  this  work  that  we  must  now 
enter. 

His  earliest  writings — Cabbages  and  the  other  verses 
composed  at  Charterhouse,  the  Irish  Melody,  and  the 
contributions  to  the  Snob  and  Gownsman,  were,  of  course, 
purely  boyish  efforts ;  and  even  his  writings  in  the  ill- 
fated  National  Standard  may  be  counted  as  amateur 
work.  It  is  now,  arrived  at  the  period  when  he  first  seri- 
ously adopted  literature,  that  we  are  met  by  the  ques- 
tion: When  and  for  what  papers  did  he  first  write 
professionally? 

Mr.  James  Payn  has  recorded  that  Thackeray  told  him 
the  first  money  he  ever  received  in  literature  ("under 
what  circumstances  he  did  not  say,  but  I  fancy  they 
must  have  been  droll  ones")  was  from  Mr.  G.  W.  M. 
Reynolds.  Mr.  Payn  added  he  was  so  astounded  that 
he  forgot  to  ask  for  what  species  of  contribution  Thack- 
eray was  paid.  This  knowledge,  therefore,  advances  us 
very  little  and,  after  all,  it  is  most  probable  that  these 
articles,  criticisms,  tales,  verses,  or  what  not,  were  of 
very  little  importance,  and  may,  with  safety,  be  ignored. 


96          "Cdilliam  flDafeepeace 

Turning  away  from  the  writings  of  minor  interest,  we 
find  ourselves  face  to  face  with  another  problem  which 
has  proved  a  stumbling-block  to  the  bibliographers, 
which  cannot  be  so  lightly  passed  over:  What  were 
Thackeray's  earliest  contributions  to  the  pages  of 
Fraser  s  Magazine? 

There  are  only  two  things  to  guide  the  perplexed 
searcher.  The  first  is  a  letter  from  Thackeray  at  Weimar, 
in  which  he  mentions  that  Fraser  had  just  come  out — 
this  shows  that  he  knew  of  the  magazine  from  its  first 
appearance  in  1830.  The  second,  however,  is  much 
more  satisfactory,  and  proves  beyond  all  doubt  that  he 
had  written  in  Fraser  before  1835 — and  this  is  to  admit 
by  inference  that  he  had  at  that  time  obtained  some 
standing  in  the  world  of  letters,  since  the  contributors  to 
the  magazine  were  not  by  any  means  a  race  of  "leetle" 
men — for  in  the  January  (1835)  number  there  appeared 
a  picture  by  Maclure,  showing  the  chief  contributors  to 
the  periodical.  Maginn  (the  editor),  Barry  Cornwall, 
Lockwood,  John  Gall,  Ainsworth,  Brydger  Gleig, 
Edward  Irving,  Sir  David  Brewster,  Count  D'Orsay, 
Theodore  Hook,  South ey,  Coleridge,  Carlyle,  etc.,  and 
our  Mr.  Titmarsh  dining  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Fraser. 

No  article  has  yet  been  positively  identified  as  Thack- 
eray's before  November,  1837,  when  a  review  appeared 
of  a  book  that  had  just  been  published,  called  My  Book, 
or  the  Anatomy  of  Conduct,  by  John  Henry  Skelton,  a  half- 
demented  West-end  linen  draper,  who  had  the  immovable 
idea  that  his  mission  was  to  instruct  the  world  in  the 
true  art  of  etiquette!  The  review  was  written  in  the 
form  of  a  letter  to  '  Oliver  Yorke, '  and  was  headed  Fash- 
noble  Fax  and  Polite  Annygoats.  By  Charles  Yellowplush, 
Esquire,  and  dated  "No.  — ,  Grosvenor  Square,  i8th 


Journalism  ano  /iDarrfage  97 

October  (N.  B. — Hairy  Bell). ' '  It  winds  up  with  a  note, 
signed  O.  Y.,  though  most  certainly  written  by  Thack- 
eray, which  concludes:  "He  who  looketh  from  a  tower 
sees  more  of  the  battle  than  the  knights  and  captains 
engaged  in  it;  and,  in  like  manner,  he  who  stands 
behind  a  fashionable  table  knows  more  of  society  than 
the  guests  who  sit  at  the  board.  It  is  from  this  source 
that  our  great  novel-writers  have  drawn  their  experience, 
retailing  the  truths  which  they  learned.  It  is  not  impos- 
sible that  Mr.  Yellowplush  may  continue  his  communica- 
tions, when  we  shall  be  able  to  present  the  reader  with 
the  only  authentic  picture  of  fashionable  life  which  has  been 
given  to  the  world  in  our  time." 

There  must,  however,  have  been  many  articles  from 
Thackeray's  pen  before  this  year.  Mr.  Swinburne,  Dr. 
John  Brown,  and  Mr.  Shepherd,  believe  the  gruesome 
Elizabeth  Brownrigge  (Fraser,  August,  September,  1832) 
to  have  been  written  by  him ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
Mr.  C.  P.  Johnson  says  that  in  his  opinion  "after  most 
careful  consideration  of  all  they  (Swinburne  and  Brown) 
have  written  on  the  subject  and  of  the  story  itself,  it 
seems  to  be  impossible  to  concede  to  Elizabeth  Brownrigge 
the  honour  of  counting  Thackeray  as  its  author.*  My 
belief  is  that  Thackeray  did  write  the  story.  The  satir- 
ical dedication  to  the  author  of  Eugene  Aram  and  the 
Advertisement  seem  to  me  to  be  quite  in  Thackeray's 
early  style.  Indeed,  to  me  the  whole  tale  suggests  an 
immature  Catherine — the  motive  of  the  two  tales  is  the 
same,  and  many  of  the  passages  are  similar  in  intent, 
and  not  vastly  different  in  text.  And  since  Thackeray, 

^Elizabeth  Brownrigge  is  naturally  not  to  be  found  in  Thackeray's 
collected  works,  but  the  curious  will  find  it  reprinted  in  the  volume 
published  by  Redman  in  1887,  entitled  Sultan  Stork. 


98          William  flDafeepeace  Ubacfcerap 

after  publication,  rewrote  his  imitation  of  Beranger's 
//  4ta.it  un  Roi  d'  Yvetot,  why  should  he  not  have  written  two 
stories,  endeavouring  in  each,  but  with  stronger  pen  in 
the  second,  to  aim  a  blow  at  what  he  regarded  as  a  very 
pernicious  literary  tendency? 

Elizabeth  Brownrigge  was  the  story  of  a  wretched 
woman  who  murdered  her  two  apprentices,  while  Cath- 
erine, supposed  to  be  written  by  Ikey  Solomons,  Esq., 
junior,  himself  a  convict,  tells  of  a  woman,  named  Cath- 
erine Hayes,  who  was  burned  at  Tyburn  for  the  delib- 
erate murder  of  her  husband  under  very  revolting 
circumstances.*  The  object  of  each  book  is  avowedly 
"to  counteract  the  injurious  influence  of  some  popular 
fictions  of  that  day,  which  made  heroes  of  highwaymen 
and  burglars,  and  created  a  false  sympathy  for  the  vicious 
and  criminal." 

In  each  story  it  is  endeavoured,  by  ridiculing  such 
books  as  Eugene  Aram,  Jack  Sheppard,  and  similar  produc- 
tions, to  bring  about  a  healthier  taste. 

Read  the  advertisement  to  Elizabeth  Brownrigge: — 

"The  author  of  the  foregoing  tale  begs  leave  to  state 
that  he  is  prepared  to  treat  with  any  liberal  and  enter- 
prising publisher,  who  may  be  inclined  to  embark  in  the 
speculation,  for  a  series  of  novels,  each  in  three  volumes, 

*In  1850  Mr.  Briggs,  an  Irishman,  suddenly  declared  that 
Catherine  had  reference  to  a  Miss  Catherine  Hayes,  an  Irish  singer 
of  some  repute.  The  angry  Irishman  wrote  to  Thackeray  that  he 
would  thrash  him,  and  took  lodgings  opposite  to  the  house  in  Young 
Street.  After  a  time,  finding  the  situation  ludicrous  and  impossible, 
Thackeray  called  on  Mr.  Briggs  and  pointed  out  that  when  the  story 
was  written,  in  1839,  Miss  Hayes  was  certainly  unknown  and  prob- 
ably in  short  frocks.  There  was  no  thrashing.  Thackeray  stood  six 
feet  three  inches,  or  more.  But  the  reported  discovery  had  spread, 
and  so  many  attacks  were  made  upon  him  in  the  papers  that  at  last 
the  author  settled  the  matter  once  for  all  in  a  letter,  Capers  and 
Anchovies,  that  on  April  12,  1850,  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the 
Morning  Chronicle.  See  appendix. 


Journalism  ano  ^Damage  99 

8vo,  under  the  title  of  Tales  of  the  Old  Bailey,  or  Romances 
of  Tyburn  Tree,  in  which  the  whole  Newgate  Calendar 
shall  be  travestied  after  the  manner  of  Eugene  Aram." 

And  then  the  dedication  of  the  same  story : — 

"From  the  perusal  of  older  works  of  imagination  I 
had  learned  so  to  weave  the  incidents  of  my  story  as  to 
interest  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favour  of  virtue,  and 
to  increase  his  detestation  of  vice.  I  have  been  taught 
by  Eugene  Aram  to  mix  vice  and  virtue  up  together  in 
such  an  inextricable  confusion  as  to  render  it  impossible 
that  any  preference  should  be  given  to  either,  or  that 
the  one  indeed  should  be  distinguishable  from  the  other. 
In  taking  my  subject  from  the  walk  of  life  to 
which  you  had  directed  my  attention,  many  motives 
conspired  to  fix  my  choice  on  the  heroine  of  the  ensuing 
tale;  she  is  a  classic  personage, — her  name  has  been 
already  'linked  to  immortal  verse'  by  the  muse  of  Can- 
ning. Besides,  it  is  extraordinary  that,  as  you  had  com- 
menced a  tragedy  under  the  title  of  Eugene  Aram,  I  had 
already  written  a  burletta  with  the  title  of  Elizabeth 
Brownrigge.  I  had  indeed,  in  my  dramatic  piece,  been 
guilty  of  an  egregious  and  unpardonable  error:  I  had 
attempted  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  the  audience  in 
favour  of  the  murdered  apprentices,  but  your  novel  has 
disabused  me  of  so  vulgar  a  prejudice,  and,  in  my  present 
version  of  her  story,  all  the  interest  of  the  reader  and  all 
the  pathetic  powers  of  the  author  will  be  engaged  on  the 
side  of  the  murderess." 

And  again : — 

"I  am  inclined  to  regard  you  as  an  original  discov- 
erer in  the  world  of  literary  enterprise,  and  to  reverence 
you  as  the  father  of  a  new  'lusus  naturae'  school.  There 
is  no  other  title  by  which  your  manner  could  be  so  aptly 


ioo         William  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

designated.  I  am  told,  for  instance,  that  in  a  former 
work,  having  to  paint  an  adulterer,  you  described  him  as 
belonging  to  the  class  of  country  curates,  among  whom, 
perhaps,  such  a  curate  is  not  met  with  in  a  hundred 
years ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  being  in  search  of  a  tender 
hearted,  generous,  sentimental,  high-minded  hero  of 
romance,  you  turned  to  the  pages  of  the  Newgate  Calen- 
dar, and  looked  for  him  in  the  list  of  men  who  have  cut 
throats  for  money,  among  whom  a  person  in  possession 
of  such  qualities  could  never  have  been  met  at  all. 
Wanting  a  shrewd,  selfish,  worldly,  calculating  valet, 
you  describe  him  as  an  old  soldier,  though  he  bears  not 
a  single  trait  of  the  character  which  might  have  been 
moulded  by  a  long  course  of  military  service,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  is  marked  by  all  the  distinguishing  features 
of  a  bankrupt  attorney,  or  a  lame  duck  from  the  Stock 
Exchange.  Having  to  paint  a  cat,  you  endow  her  with 
all  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a  dog." 

The  moral  of  Elizabeth  Brownrigge  and  Catherine  is 
identical.  It  is  a  purpose  for  which  Thackeray  was 
never  tired  of  labouring  in  both  these  stories,  and  in  his 
almost  unknown  article  on  Fielding. 

"Vice  is  never  to  be  mistaken  for  virtue  in  Fielding's 
honest,  downright  books;  it  goes  by  its  name,  but 
invariably  gets  its  punishment.  See  the  consequences 
of  honesty.  Many  a  squeamish  lady  of  our  time  would 
throw  down  one  of  these  romances  with  horror,  but 
would  go  through  every  page  of  Mr.  Ainsworth's  Jack 
Sheppard  with  perfect  comfort  to  herself.  Ainsworth 
dared  not  paint  his  hero  as  the  scoundrel  he  knew  him 
to  be.  He  must  keep  his  brutalities  in  the  background, 
else  the  public  morals  will  be  outraged,  and  so,  he  pro- 
duces a  book  quite  absurd  and  unreal,  and  infinitely 


journalism  anfc  /IDarria^e  IQI 

more  immoral  than  anything  Fielding  ever  wrote.  Jack 
Sheppard  is  immoral  actually  because  it  is  decorous.  The 
Spartans  who  used  to  show  drunken  slaves  to  their  chil- 
dren took  care,  no  doubt,  that  the  slave  should  be  really 
and  truly  drunk;  sham  drunkenness,  which  never  passed 
the  limits  of  propriety,  would  be  rather  an  object  to 
incite  youth  to  intoxication  than  to  deter  him  from  it, 
and  the  same  late  revels  have  always  struck  us  in  the 
same  light." 

Still,  the  question  of  the  authorship  of  Elizabeth 
Brownrigge  cannot  be  held  as  settled  until  fresh  light 
from  some  at  present  unknown  source  is  thrown  upon  the 
subject. 

Mr.  C.  P.  Johnson,  with  praiseworthy  patience  and 
industry,  has  examined,  article  by  article,  the  volumes 
of  Fraser,  from  its  first  appearance  until  Fashnable  Fax, 
but  the  result  is  not  very  satisfactory.  "After  all," 
Mr.  Johnson  says,  "I  have  only  been  able  conclusively 
to  identify  one  solitary  ballad,  though  there  are  many 
more  pieces  both  in  prose  and  verse  that  may  have  been 
and  probably  were  by  Thackeray."  The  ballad  to  which 
he  refers  is  the  well-known  imitation  of  Beranger's  // 
etaitun  Roi  d'Yvetot,  which,  however,  was  almost  entirely 
re-written  before  its  re-publication  in  the  Ballads. 

The  "doubtfuls"  include: — 

(i)  Hints  for  a  History  of  Highwaymen  (March,  1834),  a 
review  of  Lives  and  Exploits  of  English  Highwaymen,  Pirates, 
and  Robbers,  by  C.  Whitehead,  Esq. 

(ii)  A  Dozen  of  Novels  (April,  1834)  criticising  stories 
of  which,  with  perhaps  the  exception  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  Helen,  the  modern  reader  has  never  heard. 

(iii)  Highways  and  Low-ways,  or  Ainsworth' s  Dictionary, 
with  notes  by  Turpin  (June,  1834),  a  review  of  Rookwood. 


102         William  /IDafeepeace 

(iv)  Paris  and  the  Parisians  in  1835  (February,  1836), 
an  article  on  a  book  of  the  same  name  by  Mr.  Trollope. 

(v)  Another  Caw  from  the  Rookwood:  Turpin  out  again 
(April,  1836),  a  further  article  on  Ainsworth's  novel,  on 
the  appearance  of  the  third  edition. 

(vi)  The  Jew  of  York  (September,  1836),  a  burlesque 
that  certainly  suggests  the  author  of  Rebecca  and  Rowena. 

(vii)  Mr.  Grant's  Great  Metropolis  (December,  1836). 
Thackeray  reviewed  the  same  author's  Paris  and  its  People 
in  December,  1843. 

(viii)  One  or  two  Words  about  one  or  two  Books  (April, 
1837),  dealing  with  Savage  Lander's  Satire  on  Satirists, 
and  an  anonymous  tragedy  entitled  The  Student  of  Padua. 

But  even  if  we  accept  all  these  articles  as  being  from 
Thackeray's  pen — and  they  most  certainly  bear  traces  of 
his  workmanship  —  there  must  be  a  good  many  more 
papers  still  hidden,  especially  between  1830  and  1834; 
for  Mr.  Taylor  says  that  it  was  early  in  1834  that 
Thackeray  was  recognised  as  an  established  contributor, 
worthy  to  take  a  permanent  place  among  the  brilliant 
staff,  and  he  hints  at  some  papers  chiefly  referring  to 
the  Fine  Arts  (most  of  them  having  reference  to  Thack- 
eray's French  experiences)  written  while  he  was  still 
studying  painting  in  Paris,  and  before  the  pseudonyms 
of  Titmarsh,  Fitzboodle,  Yellowplush,  and  Mr.  Wagstaff, 
were  thought  of. 

When  the  Constitutional  failed,  Thackeray,  having  a 
wife  to  provide  for,  and  having  no  source  of  income, 
plunged  into  work  with  immense  energy,  and  wrote  for 
many  magazines  and  papers,  though,  as  most  of  the 
writings  were  published  anonymously,  it  is  possible  to 
trace  only  a  few  of  the  articles.  Most  of  the  writing 
was  hack-work,  and  with  a  fine  indifference  he  supplied 


Journalism  ano  flDarriage  103 

drawings,  novelettes,  stories,  reviews,  art  criticisms, 
foreign  correspondence,  and  poems,  in  great  profusion  to 
Fraser's  Magazine,  Bentley's  Miscellany,  Colburn's  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  the  Westminster  Review,  Cruikshank's 
Omnibus  and  Comic  Almanacs,  the  Times,  the  Morning 
Chronicle  (his  favourite  journal,  with  which,  in  spite  of 
his  frequent  contributions,  he  never  succeeded  in  estab- 
lishing a  permanent  connection),  the  Globe,  Galignanfs 
Messenger,*  etc. 

In  1837,  besides  the  already  mentioned  Fashnable  Fax 
(Fraser,  November)  his  other  principal  writings  were : 

(i)  A  review  which  appeared  in  the  Times  (August  3), 
on  Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  of  which  the  sage  of 
Chelsea  did  not  entirely  approve.  "I  understand  there 
have  been  many  reviews  of  a  mixed  character,"  the 
philosopher  wrote  to  his  brother;  "I  got  one  in  the 
Times  last  week.  The  writer  is  one  Thackeray,  a  half 
monstrous  Cornish  giant,  kind  of  painter,  Cambridge 
man,  and  Paris  newspaper  correspondent,  who  is  now 
writing  for  his  life  in  London.  .  .  .  His  article  is 
rather  like  him,  and,  I  suppose,  calculated  to  do  the 
book  good." 

(ii)  The  Professor,  A  Tale.  By  Goliah  Gahagan  (Bentley's 
Miscellany,  September);  and 

(iii)  A  word  on  the  Annuals  (Fraser,  December),  in  which 
he  makes  a  vigourous  attack  on  the  Keepsake  sort  of  pro- 
duction which,  after  works  of  the  class  parodied  in  Cath- 
erine, were  his  pet  aversion. 

"It  is  hardly  necessary  to  examine  these  books  and 
designs  one  by  one,"  he  wrote;  "they  all  bear  the  same 

*Thackeray  wrote  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  in  October,  1848,  saying: 
"We"  [Longueville  Jones  and  himself]  "worked  in  Galignani's  news- 
paper for  ten  francs  a  day  very  cheerfully  ten  years  ago." 


104         "CdUlfam  flDafeepeace 

character  and  are  exactly  like  The  Book  of  Beauty,  Flowers 
of  Loveliness,  and  so  on,  which  appeared  last  year.  A 
large,  weak  plate,  done  in  what  we  believe  is  called  the 
stipple  style  of  engraving,  a  woman  badly  drawn,  with 
enormous  eyes — a  tear,  perhaps,  upon  each  cheek — and 
an  exceedingly  low  cut  dress — pats  a  greyhound  or 
weeps  into  a  flower  pot,  or  delivers  a  letter  to  a  bandy- 
legged, curly-headed  page.  An  immense  train  of  white 
satin  fills  up  one  corner  of  the  plate ;  an  urn,  a  stone 
railing,  a  fountain  and  a  bunch  of  hollyhocks  adorn  the 
other;  the  picture  is  signed  Sharpe,  Parris,  Corbould, 
Corbeaux,  Jenkins,  Brown,  as  the  case  may  be,  and  is 
entitled  The  Pearl,  La  Dolorosa,  La  Diondina,  Le  Gage 
d*  Amour,  The  Forsaken  One  of  Florence,  The  Water  Lily,  or 
some  such  name.  Miss  Landon,  Miss  Mitford,  or  my 
Lady  Blessington,  writes  a  song  upon  the  opposite  page, 
about  Water  Lily,  chilly,  stilly,  shivering  beside  a  stream- 
let, plighted,  blighted,  love-benighted,  falsehood  sharper 
than  a  gimlet,  lost  affection,  recollection,  cut  connexion, 
tears  in  torrents,  true  love-token,  spoken,  broken,  sigh- 
ing, dying,  girl  of  Florence;  and  so  on.  The  poetry  is 
quite  worthy  of  the  picture,  and  a  little  sham  sentiment 
is  employed  to  illustrate  a  little  sham  art.  ...  It 
cannot  be  supposed  that  Miss  Landon,  a  woman  of 
genius — Miss  Mitford,  a  lady  of  exquisite  wit  and  taste — 
should,  of  their  own  accord,  sit  down  to  indite  namby- 
pamby  verses  about  silly,  half-decent  pictures ;  or  that 
Jenkins,  Parris,  Meadows  &  Co.,  are  not  fatigued  by  this 
time  with  the  paltry  labour  assigned  to  them. 
Who  sets  them  to  this  wretched  work?  To  paint  these 
eternal  fancy  portraits  of  ladies  in  voluptuous  attitudes 
and  various  stages  of  deshabille,  to  awaken  the  dormant 
sensibilities  of  misses  in  their  teens,  or  tickle  the  worn- 


Journalism  ant)  /IDarriage  105 

out  palates  of  rakes  and  routs?  What  a  noble  occupa- 
tion for  a  poet !  what  a  delicate  task  for  an  artist !  '  How 
sweet!'  says  Miss,  examining  some  voluptuous  Inez,  or 
some  loving  Haide"e,  and  sighing  for  an  opportunity  to 
imitate  her.  'How  rich!'  says  the  gloating  old  bach- 
elor, who  has  his  bedroom  hung  round  with  them,  or 
the  dandy  young  shopman,  who  can  only  afford  to  pur- 
chase two  or  three  of  the  most  undressed ;  and  the  one 
dreams  of  opera  girls  and  French  milliners,  and  the 
other,  of  the  'splendid  women'  that  he  has  seen  in  Mr. 
Yates's  last  new  piece  at  the  Adelphi. 

"The  publishers  of  these  prints  allow  that  the  taste 
is  execrable  which  renders  such  abominations  popular, 
but  the  public  will  buy  nothing  else,  and  the  public  must 
be  fed.  The  painter  perhaps,  admits  that  he  abuses 
his  talent  (that  noble  gift  of  God,  which  was  given  him 
for  a  better  purpose  than  to  cater  for  the  appetites  of 
faded  debauchees);  but  he  must  live,  and  he  has  no 
other  resource.  Exactly  the  same  excuse  might  be  made 
by  Mrs.  Cole." 

A  little  more  is  known  of  his  articles  in  the  following 
year  (1838),  though  there  is  nothing  approaching  a  full 
record  yet  compiled.  To  the  Times  he  contributed 
reviews  on 

(i)  The  Duchess  of  MarlborougWs  Private  Correspondence 
(January  6),  which  review  is  chiefly  interesting  for  the 
following  passages : — 

"The  dignity  of  history  sadly  diminishes  as  we  grow 
better  acquainted  with  the  materials  which  compose  it. 
In  our  orthodox  history  books  the  characters  move  on  as 
in  a  gaudy  play-house  procession,  a  glittering  pageant  of 
kings  and  warriors  and  stately  ladies  majestically  appear- 
ing and  passing  away.  Only  he  who  sits  very  near  the 


106         TRHUltam  flDafcepeace 

stage  can  discover  of  what  poor  stuff  the  spectacle  is 
made.  The  kings  are  poor  creatures,  taken  from  the 
dregs  of  the  Company;  the  noble  knights  are  dirty 
dwarfs  in  tin  foil ;  the  fair  ladies  are  painted  hags  with 
cracked  feathers  and  soiled  trains.  One  wonders  how 
gas  and  distance  could  ever  have  rendered  them  so 
bewitching.  The  perusal  of  letters  like  these  produces 
a  very  similar  disenchantment,  and  the  great  historical 
figures  dwindle  down  into  the  common  proportions  as 
we  come  to  view  them  so  closely.  Kings,  Ministers, 
and  Generals  form  the  principal  dramatis  persona;  and  if 
we  may  pursue  the  stage  parallel  a  little  further,  eye 
never  lighted  upon  a  troupe  more  contemptible. 
Weighty  political  changes  had  been  worked  in  the  coun- 
try, others  threatened  equally  great.  Great  questions 
were  agitated — whether  the  Protestant  Religion  should 
be  the  dominant  creed  of  the  State,  and  the  Elector  of 
Hanover  a  king,  or  whether  Papacy  should  be  restored 
and  James  III.  placed  on  the  throne — whether  the  con- 
tinental despotism  aimed  at  by  Louis  should  be  estab- 
lished, or  the  war  continued  to  maintain  the  balance  of 
power  in  Europe,  or  at  least  to  assure  the  ascendency  of 
England — on  these  points  our  letter-writers  hardly  deign 
to  say  a  word.  The  political  question  is  whether 
Harley  should  be  in  or  Godolphin,  how  Mrs.  Masham, 
the  chambermaid,  can  be  checked  or  won  over,  how  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough  can  regain  her  lost  influence 
over  the  queen,  or  whether  the  duke  is  strong  enough  to 
do  without  it,  can  force  his  Captain-Generalcy  for  life, 
and  compel  the  queen  to  ensure  to  his  daughters  the 
pension  and  places  of  their  mother." 

(ii)  Eros  and  Anferos,  or  Love,  by  Lady  Charlotte  Bury 
(January  n). 


•Journalism  anfc  jflDarriaae  107 

(iii)  A  Diary  relative  to  George  IV.  and  Queen  Caroline* 
(January  1 1),  which  set  Thackeray  on  the  war-path 
again,  and  rightly  so,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  opening 
and  closing  passages  of  the  article  now  quoted, — 

"We  never  met  with  a  book  more  pernicious  or  more 
mean.  It  possesses  that  interest  which  the  scandalous 
chronicles  of  Brantome  and  Rabutin,  and  the  ingenious 
Mrs.  Harriette  Wilson,  have  excited  before,  and  is  pre- 
cisely of  a  similar  class.  It  does  worse  than  chronicle 
the  small  beer  of  a  court — the  materials  of  this  book  are 
infinitely  more  base,  the  foul  tittle-tattle  of  the  sweepings 
of  the  Princess  of  Wales's  bed-chamber  or  dressing-room, 
her  table  or  ante-room,  the  reminiscences  of  industrious 
eaves-dropping,  the  careful  records  of  her  unguarded 
moments,  and  the  publication  of  her  confidential  corre- 
spondence, are  the  chief  foundations  for  this  choice 
work.  Add  to  this  scandal  of  the  Princess  of  Wales, 
sneering  small  talk  about  the  Princess  Charlotte,  a  few 
old  women's  tales  of  familiar  moving  in  what  is  called 
high  life,  and  paw-paw  stories  of  their  domestic  infideli- 
ties and  peccadilloes,  and  we  have  an  accurate  catalogue 
of  the  diary.  .  .  .  Was  there,  we  ask,  any  need  of 
fresh  information  as  to  the  Princess's  life  and  follies? 
Was  it  modest  or  decorous  that  a  woman  should  record 
them? — a  woman,  too,  who  has  eaten  at  her  table,  and 
dipped  into  her  purse,  shared  in  her  wild  revels,  and 
doubtless  flattered  her  and  cringed  to  her  in  her  time. 
.  We  may  read  this  diary,  and  say  it  is  indeed  a 
ridicule  to  bear  a  towering  name  or  to  pretend  to  the  old 
virtue  which  characterised  it,  or  the  honour  which  for- 
merly belonged  to  it.  It  is  ridicule  indeed  to  come  of  a 

*This  same  book  is  the  subject  of  a  very  similar  attack  by  Yellow- 
plush  in  a  paper  entitled  Skimmings  from  the  Diary  of  George  IV. 


IDS         TKHilliam  flDafeepeace 

noble  race,  and  uphold  the  well-worn  honour  of  an 
ancient  line.  What  matters  it  if  you  can  read  in  your 
family  records  the  history  of  a  thousand  years  of  loyalty 
and  courage,  of  all  that  is  noble  in  sentiment,  honest  and 
brave  in  action? — the  pride  of  ancestors  is  a  faded  super- 
stition— the  emulation  of  them  a  needless  folly.  There 
is  no  need  now  to  be  loyal  to  your  Prince,  or  tender  of 
his  memory.  Take  his  bounty  while  living,  share  his 
purse  and  his  table,  gain  his  confidence  and  learn  his 
secrets,  flatter  him,  cringe  to  him,  vow  to  him  an 
unbounded  fidelity, — and  when  he  is  dead,  write  a  diary 
and  betray  him" 

(iv)  Memoirs  of  Holt,  the  Irish  Rebel  (January  31);  and 

(v)  Poetical  Works  of  Dr.  Southey,  collected  by  himself 
(April  17). 

Besides  these  articles,  Thackeray,  who  was  a  regular 
contributor  to  the  Times,  must  have  written  for  it  many 
articles  that  are  as  yet  unknown — probably  criticisms  of 
books,  plays,  and  pictures,  chiefly. 

It  has  been  said — I  do  not  know  on  what  authority — 
that  he  wrote  for  the  two  short-lived  periodicals,  the 
Torch  and  the  Pantheon. 

The  New  Monthly  Magazine  published  The  Story  of 
Mary  Ancel,  and  Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Major  Gaha- 
gan;  but  it  was  to  Fraser  that  he  contributed  most  of  his 
best  work. 

(i)  On  a  Batch  of  Novels  for  Christmas  1837  (January, 
1838).  Reviewing  Mrs.  Trollope's  Vicar  of  Wrexhill,  in 
which  she  writes  with  great  bitterness  against  those  who 
interpreted  the  Scriptures  in  other  ways  than  she,  while 
admitting  the  cleverness  of  her  work,  he  said : — 

"A  woman's  religion  is  chiefly  that  of  the  heart,  and 
not  of  the  head.  She  goes  through,  for  the  most  part, 


Journalism  an&  /Carriage  109 

no  tedious  processes  of  reasoning,  no  dreadful  stages  of 
doubt,  no  changes  of  faith :  she  loves  God  as  she  loves 
her  husband — by  a  kind  of  instinctive  devotion.  Faith 
is  a  passion  with  her,  and  not  a  calculation ;  so  that,  in 
the  faculty  of  believing,  though  they  far  exceed  the 
other  sex,  in  the  power  of  convincing  they  fall  far  short 
of  them.  Oh!  we  repeat  once  more,  that  ladies  would 
make  puddings  and  mend  stockings!  that  they  would 
not  meddle  with  religion  (what  is  styled  religion  we 
mean)  except  to  pray  to  God,  to  live  quietly  among  their 
families,  and  more  lovingly  among  their  neighbours! 
Mrs.  Trollope,  for  instance,  who  sees  so  keenly  the  fol- 
lies of  the  other  party — how  much  vanity  there  is  in 
Bible  meetings — how  much  sin  even  at  Missionary  Soci- 
eties— how  much  cant  and  hypocrisy  there  is  among 
those  who  desecrate  the  awful  name  of  God,  by  mixing 
it  up  with  their  mean  private  interests  and  petty  projects 
— Mrs.  Trollope  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  hypocrisy 
or  bigotry  on  her  part.  She  who  designates  the  rival 
party  as  false  and  wicked  and  vain — tracing  all  their 
actions  to  the  basest  motives,  declaring  their  worship  of 
God  to  be  only  one  general  hypocrisy,  their  conduct  at 
home  one  fearful  scene  of  crime,  is  blind  to  the  faults  on 
her  own  side.  Always  bitter  against  the  Pharisees,  she 
does  as  the  Pharisees  do.  It  is  vanity  very  likely  which 
leads  these  people  to  use  God's  name  so  often,  and  to 
devote  all  to  perdition  who  do  not  coincide  in  their 
peculiar  notions.  Is  Mrs.  Trollope  less  vain  than  they 
when  she  declares,  and  merely  declares,  her  own  to  be 
the  real  creed,  and  stigmatises  its  rival  so  fiercely?  Is 
Mrs.  Trollope  serving  God,  in  making  abusive  and 
licentious  pictures  of  those  who  serve  Him  in  a  different 
way?  Once,  as  Mrs.  Trollope  has  read — it  was  a  long 


no         TKHUlfam  /iDafeepeace 

time  ago! — there  was  a  woman  taken  in  sin:  people 
brought  her  before  a  great  Teacher  of  Truth,  who  lived 
in  those  days.  'Shall  we  not  kill  her?'  said  they;  'the 
law  commands  that  all  adulteresses  should  be  killed.' 
We  can  fancy  a  Mrs.  Trollope  in  the  crowd  shouting, 
'Oh,  the  wretch!  oh,  the  abominable  harlot!  kill  her,  by 
all  means — stoning  is  really  too  good  for  her!'  But 
what  did  the  Divine  Teacher  say?  He  was  quite  as 
anxious  to  prevent  the  crime  as  any  Mrs.  Trollope  of 
them  all;  but  he  did  not  make  an  allusion  to  it — He 
did  not  describe  the  manner  in  which  the  poor  creature 
was  caught — He  made  no  speech  to  detail  the  indecen- 
cies which  she  had  committed,  or  to  raise  the  fury  of  the 
mob  against  her — He  said,  'Let  the  man  who  is  without 
sin  himself  throw  the  first  stone!'  Whereupon  the 
Pharisees  and  Mrs.  Trollopes  slunk  away,  for  they  knew 
they  were  no  better  than  she.  There  was  as  great  a  sin 
in  His  eyes  as  that  of  the  poor  erring  woman — it  was  the 
sin  of  pride.  "* 

When  Ernest  Maltravers  fell  to  him  for  criticism,  the 
lash  was  applied  with  the  utmost  vigour.  But  in  this 
article,  in  his  zeal  for  the  pure  and  healthy  in  literature, 
Thackeray  went  too  far,  and  showed  what  might  easily 
have  been  construed  as  personal  animus,  against  the 
author,  though  it  is  certain  none  existed.  He  com- 
menced with  the  following  passage : — 

"What  a  pity  that  Mr.  Bulwer  will  not  learn  wisdom 
with  age  and  confine  his  attention  to  subjects  at  once 
more  grateful  to  the  public  and  more  suitable  to  his  own 
powers.  He  excels  in  the  genre  of  Paul  de  Koch,  and  is 

*Mr.  Bedingfield  at  this  time  asked  Thackeray  to  a  party,  but  he 
declined  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Trollope  would  be  among  the  guests. 
"O,  by  Jove!  I  can't  come,"  he  exclaimed.  "I've  just  cut  up  her 
Vicar  of  Wrexhill  in  a  review.  I  think  she  tells  lies.  ' 


Journalism  ano  flDarrtage  m 

always  striving  after  the  style  of  Plato;  he  has  a  keen 
perception  of  the  ridiculous,  and,  like  Liston  or  Cruik- 
shank,  or  other  comic  artists,  persists  that  his  real  view 
is  the  sublime.  What  a  number  of  sparkling  magazine 
papers,  what  an  outpouring  of  fun  and  satire,  might  we 
not  have  had  from  Neddy  Bulwer,  had  he  not  thought 
fit  to  turn  moralist,  metaphysician,  politician,  poet,  and 
be  Edward  Lytton  heaven-knows- what  Bulwer,  Esq., 
and  M.  P.,  a  dandy,  a  philosopher,  a  spouter  at  radical 
meetings.  We  speak  feelingly,  for  we  knew  the  youth 
at  Trinity  Hall,  and  have  a  tenderness  even  for  his 
tomfooleries.  He  has  thrown  away  the  better  part  of 
himself — his  great  inclination  for  the  LOW,  namely: 
if  he  would  but  leave  off  scents  for  his  handkerchief,  and 
oil  for  his  hair:  if  he  would  but  confine  himself  to  three 
clean  shirts  in  a  week,  a  couple  of  coats  in  a  year,  a  beef- 
steak and  onions  for  dinner,  his  beaker  a  pewter  pot,  his 
carpet  a  sanded  floor,  how  much  might  be  made  of  him 
even  yet!  An  occasional  pot  of  porter  too  much — a 
black  eye  in  a  tap-room  fight  with  a  carman — a  night  in 
a  watch-house — or  a  surfeit  produced  by  Welsh  rabbit 
and  gin  and  beer,  might  perhaps  redden  his  fair  face  and 
swell  his  slim  waist ;  but  the  mental  improvement  which 
he  would  acquire  under  such  treatment — the  intellectual 
pluck  and  vigour  which  he  would  attain  by  the  stout 
diet — the  manly  sports  and  conversation  in  which  he 
would  join  at  the  Coal- Hole,  or  the  Widow's,  are  far  bet- 
ter for  him  than  the  feeble  fribble  of  the  Reform  Club 
(not  unaptly  called  the  Hole  in  the  Wall);  the  windy 
French  dinners,  which,  as  we  take  it,  are  his  usual  fare ; 
and  above  all  the  unwholesome  radical  garbage  which 
forms  the  political  food  of  himself  and  his  clique  in  the 
House  of  Commons." 


ii2         William  flDafeepeace 

Miss  Landon's  Ethel  Churchill  pleased  him  with  its 
wit  and  cleverness,  but  he  found  this  book,  too,  un- 
healthy in  tone.  "Oh!"  he  cried  out,  "oh,  for  a  little 
manly,  honest,  God-relying  simplicity — cheerful,  unaf- 
fected and  humble." 

(ii)  Half-a-  Crown's  Worth  of  Cheap  Knowledge  (March), 
in  which  article  he  dealt  with  a  round  dozen  of  the  penny 
and  twopenny  periodicals  of  the  day.  There  is  nothing 
particularly  worth  preserving  here,  except,  perhaps,  the 
following,  as  a  literary  curiosity : — 

"We  next  come  to  Oliver  Twiss  by  'Bos' ;  a  kind  of 
silly  copy  of  Boz's  admirable  tale.  We  have  not,  we 
confess,  been  able  to  read  through  Oliver  Twiss.  The 
only  amusing  part  of  it  is  an  advertisement  by  the  pub- 
lisher, calling  upon  the  public  to  buy  Lloyd's  edition 
of  Oliver  Twiss  by  '  Bos, '  it  being  the  only  genuine  one.  By 
which  we  learn  that  there  are  thieves,  and  other  thieves 
who  steal  from  the  first  thieves;  even  as  it  is  said  about 
that  exiguous  beast  the  flea,  there  be  other  fleas,  which 
annoy  the  original  animal." 

(iii)  Strictures  on  Pictures  (June),  to  the  contents  of 
which  I  refer  elsewhere. 

(iv)  Passages  from  the  Diary  of  the  late  Dolly  Duster ;  with 
Elucidations,  Notes,  etc.,  by  various  editors  (October  and 
November),  which  was  a  review  of  a  book  called  Lady 
Carry-the- Candle's  Diary. 

(v)  From  November,  1837,  until  August  in  this  year 
the  Yellowplush  Correspondence  appeared,  seemingly 
without  attracting  any  great  amount  of  attention.  These 
papers  are  referred  to  in  a  later  chapter. 

The  Correspondence  between  Charles  Yellowplush, 
Esq.,  and  Oliver  Yorke,  Esq.,  editor  of  Fraser 's  Maga- 
zine appeared : — 


THE   LAST   STROKE  OF   FORTUNE. 
The  Yello-wplush  Papers. 


journalism  anfc  Carriage  113 

(i)  Fashnable    Fax  and  Polite   Annygoats   (November, 

1837). 

(ii)  Miss  Shum's  Husband  (January,  1838). 

(iii)  Dimond  cut  Dimond  (February,  1838). 

(iv)  Skimmings  from  "The  Diary  of  George  IV"  (March, 
1838). 

(v)  Poring  Parts  (April,    1838). 

(vi)  Mr.  Deuceace  at  Paris  (May,  June,  1838). 

(vii)  The  End  of  Mr.  Deuceace' s  History  (July,  1838). 

(viii)  Mr.  Yellowplusti s  Ajew  (August,  1838). 

It  is  almost  needless  to  add  that  these  papers  were 
carefully  revised  before  their  republication.* 

When,  in  after  days,  Thackeray  wrote,  "I  suppose 
we  all  begin  by  being  too  savage.  I  know  one  who  did, ' ' 
it  was  of  these  early  papers  he  must  have  been  thinking — 
chiefly,  no  doubt,  of  his  personal  and  satirical  attacks  on 
Lytton  (then  simply  Edward  Bulwer)  in  Fraser. 

In  1 86 1  a  common  friend  of  Thackeray  and  Lord 
Lytton  wrote  to  the  latter:  ''I  saw  Thackeray  at  Folke- 
stone. He  spoke  of  you  a  great  deal,  and  said  he  would 
have  given  worlds  to  have  burnt  some  of  his  writings, 
especially  some  lampoons  written  in  his  youth.  He 
wished  so  much  to  see  you  and  express  his  contrition. 
His  admiration,  as  expressed  to  me,  was  boundless;  also 
his  regret  to  have  given  vent  to  his  youthful  jealousy, 
etc.  I  tell  you  all  this  because  I  feel  certain  he  meant 
me  to  repeat  it."  And  shortly  after  this  Lord  Lytton 
received  the  following  letter  (which  his  son  thought 
worthy  of  insertion  in  the  Life  and  Letters)  from  Thack- 
eray himself: — 

*The  Correspondence  was  published  in  book  form  late  in  1838  by 
Messrs.  Carey  &  Hart,  of  Philadelphia.  This  is  the  first  volume  ever 
issued  of  any  of  Thackeray's  writings. 


H4         TOUllfam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeera^ 

"Looking  over  some  American  reprints  of  my  books, 
I  find  one  containing  a  preface  written  by  me  when  I 
was  in  New  York,  in  which  are  the  following  words  :* 
'The  careless  papers  written  at  an  early  period,  and 
never  seen  since  the  printer's  boy  carried  them  away,  are 
brought  back  and  laid  at  the  father's  door,  and  he  can- 
not, if  he  would,  disown  his  own  children.  Why  were 
some  of  the  little  brats  brought  out  of  their  obscurity? 
I  own  to  a  feeling  of  anything  but  pleasure  in  reviewing 
some  of  these  juvenile,  misshapen  creatures  which  the 
publisher  has  disinterred  and  resuscitated.  There  are 
two  performances  especially  (among  the  critical  and  bio- 
graphical works  of  the  erudite  Mr.  Yellowplush)  which  I 
am  sorry  to  see  reproduced,  and  I  ask  pardon  of  the 
author  of  The  Caxtons  for  a  lampoon,  which  I  know  he 
himself  has  forgiven,  and  which  I  wish  I  could  recall.  I 
had  never  seen  that  writer  but  once  in  public  when  this 
satire  was  penned,  and  wonder  at  the  recklessness  of  the 
young  man  who  could  fancy  such  personality  was  harm- 
less jocularity,  and  never  calculated  that  it  might  give 
pain.' 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  were  ever  made  aware  of 
this  cry  of  {Peccavi,'  but  with  the  book  in  which  it  appears 
just  fresh  before  me,  I  think  it  fair  to  write  a  line  to 
acquaint  you  of  the  existence  of  such  an  apology,  and  to 
assure  you  of  the  author's  repentance  of  the  past,  and 
the  present  sincere  good  will  with  which  he  is 
"Yours  most  faithfully, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

To  me  it  seems  that  the  parody  of  Bulwer's  style  is 
most  admirable,  and  it  is,  I  think,  almost  as  good  as  any- 

*This  is  to  be  found  in  the  Preface,  which  Thackeray  wrote  in 
December,  1852,  to  Appleton's  edition  of  his  minor  works.  See 
Appendix. 


LORD   CRABS   BESTOWS   UPON   THE   LADIES   HIS   PARTING   BENEDICTION 
The  YelloTvflush  Papers. 


journalism  ant)  flDarriage  115 

thing  in  the  Prize  Novelists.  Like  Cabbages,  the  pas- 
sages in  Mr.  Yellowplush's  Ajew  were  prompted  by 
Thackeray's  sense  of  the  overstrained  sentiment  which 
is  so  prevalent,  especially  in  Lytton's  earlier  works,  and 
as  I  feel  certain  that  the  parody  was  written  entirely 
"without  prejudice,"  I  quote  a  couple  of  paragraphs,  for 
the  fun  is  too  good  to  miss. 

This  is  the  speech  in  which  Bulwer  dissuades  the 
footman  from  joining  the  world  of  letters:  "  'Yellow- 
plush,'  says  he,  seizing  my  hand,  'you  are  right.  Quit 
not  your  present  occupation ;  black  boots,  clean  knives, 
wear  plush  all  your  life,  but  don't  turn  literary  man. 
Look  at  me.  I  am  the  first  novelist  in  Europe.  I  have 
ranged  with  eagle  wing  over  the  wide  regions  of  litera- 
ture, and  perched  on  every  eminence  in  turn.  I  have 
gazed  with  eagle  eyes  on  the  Sun  of  Philosophy,  and 
fathomed  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  human  mind. 
All  languages  are  familiar  to  me,  all  thoughts  are  known 
to  me,  all  men  understood  by  me.  I  have  gathered  wis- 
dom from  the  honeyed  lips  of  Plato,  as  we  wandered  in 
the  gardens  of  the  Academes, — wisdom,  too,  from  the 
mouth  of  Job  Johnson,  as  we  smoked  our  "baccy"  in 
Seven  Dials.  Such  must  be  the  studies,  and  such  is 
the  mission  in  this  world,  of  the  poet-philosopher.  But 
the  Knowledge  is  only  emptiness;  the  initiation  is  but 
misery;  the  initiated  a  man  shunned  and  banned  by  his 
fellows.'  'Oh,'  said  Bulwig,  clasping  his  hands,  and 
throwing  his  fine  I's  up  to  the  chandelier,  'the  curse  of 
Pwometheus  descends  upon  his  wace.  Wath  and  pun- 
ishment pursue  them  from  genewation  to  genewation ! 
Wo  to  Genius,  the  Heaven-sealer,  the  fire-stealer!  Wo 
and  thrice  bitter  desolation !  earth  is  the  wock  on  which 
Zeus,  wemorseless,  stwetches  his  withing  victim — men,  the 


n6         1fl2lUliam  flDafeepeace 

vultures  that  feed  and  fatten  on  him.  Ai,  ai!  it  is  agony 
eternal — gwoaning  and  solitawy  despair!  And  you, 
Yellowplush,  would  penetwate  these  mystewies:  you 
would  waise  the  awful  veil,  and  stand  in  the  twemendous 
Pwesence.  Beware  as  you  value  your  peace,  beware ! 
Withdwaw,  wash  neophite!  for  Heaven's  sake — oh,  for 
Heaven's  sake!' — here  he  looked  round  with  agony — 
'give  me  a  glass  of  bwandy  and  water  for  this  clawet  is 
beginning  to  disagwee  with  me. ' 

Not  less  amusing  is  the  speech  "And  pray  for  what," 
is  he  to  be  made  a  baronet : — 

"What  faw?"  says  Bulwig,  "ask  the  Histowy  of 
Litewature  what  faw?  Ask  Colburn,  ask  Bentley,  ask 
Sawnders  and  Otley,  ask  the  Gweat  Bwitish  Nation  what 
faw?  The  blood  in  my  veins  comes  puwified  thwough 
ten  thousand  years  of  chivalwous  ancestry;  but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there:  my  political  pwincipals — the 
equal  wights  which  I  have  advocated — the  gweat  cause  of 
fweedom  that  I  have  celebwated,  are  known  to  all.  But 
this,  I  confess,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question. 
No ;  the  question  is  this — on  the  thwone  of  litewature  I 
stand  unwivalled,  pwe-eminent ;  and  the  Bwitish  govern- 
ment, honowing  genius  in  me,  compliments  the  Bwitish 
nation  by  lifting  into  the  bosom  of  the  heweditawy 
nobility,  the  most  gifted  member  of  the  Democwacy,' 
(the  honrabble  genlmn  here  sank  down  amidst  repeated 
cheers)." 

Thackeray's  work  gradually  became  known  among 
his  fellow- workers,  and  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  the  editor  of 
the  New  York  Corsair,  secured  his  services  for  the  paper 
in  which  (August  24th,  1839)  ne  printed  the  following 
appreciative  passages : — 

"I  have  been  delighted  to  find  that  the  authors  of 


I 

I 

* 


i  i 


Journalism  ant)  dDarrfaae  117 

the  two  best  periodical  series  of  papers  that  have  appeared 
for  twenty  years  are  one  and  the  same  person.  One  of 
my  first  enquiries  in  London  was  touching  the  author- 
ship of  the  Yellowplush  Papers,  next  the  Reminiscences  of 
Major  Gahagan — the  only  things  in  periodical  literature, 
except  the  Pickwick  Papers,  for  which  I  looked  with  any 
interest  or  eagerness.  The  author,  Mr.  Thackeray, 
breakfasted  with  me  yesterday,  and  the  readers  of  the 
Corsair  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure,  to  hear  that  I  have 
engaged  this  cleverest  and  most  gifted  of  the  magazine 
writers  of  London  to  become  a  regular  correspondent  of 
the  Corsair.  He  left  London  for  Paris  the  day  after, 
and  having  resided  in  that  city  for  many  years,  his  let- 
ters from  thence  will  be  pictures  of  life  in  France,  done 
with  a  bolder  and  more  trenchant  pen  than  has  yet 
attempted  the  subject.  He  will  present  a  long  letter 
every  week,  and  you  will  agree  with  me  that  he  is  no 
common  acquisition.  Thackeray  is  a  tall,  athletic  man 
of  about  thirty-five,  with  a  look  of  talent  that  could 
never  be  mistaken.  He  has  taken  to  literature  after 
having  spent  a  very  large  inheritance,  but  in  throwing 
away  the  gifts  of  fortune  he  has  cultivated  his  natural 
talents  very  highly,  and  is  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
draughtsmen  in  England,  as  well  as  the  cleverest  and 
most  brilliant  of  periodical  writers.  He  has  been  the 
principal  critic  for  the  Times,  and  writes  for  Fraser  and 
Black-wood.  You  will  hear  from  him  by  the  first  steamer 
after  his  arrival  in  Paris,  and  thenceforward  regularly." 

To  the  Corsair  Thackeray  contributed  eight  Letters 
from  London,  Paris,  Pekin,  Petersborough,  etc.  By  the 
author  of  the  " Yellowplush  Correspondence,"  the  "Mem- 
oirs of  Major  Gahagan,"  etc.,  etc.,  and  seven  of  these 
letters,  rewritten  and  renamed,  were  published  in  the 


us         TKlUUam  flDafeepeace  TIbacfceras 

Paris  Sketch  Book.  On  September  28  Mr.  Willis  printed 
the  paper  Captain  Rook  and  Mr.  Pigeon,  and  openly 
declared  it  by  William  Thackeray,  author  of  the  Yellow- 
plush  Correspondence,  though  the  letters  continued  to  be 
signed  T.  T.  as  before. 

During  1839  Thackeray  also  wrote  an  article  on  Lord 
Brougham's  Speeches  for  the  British  and  Foreign  Review 
(April),  in  which,  in  the  very  first  passage,  he  shows  his 
insight  into  the  ex-Minister's  character: 

' '  To  discuss  each  speech  properly, ' '  he  wrote, ' '  perhaps 
the  reviewer  should  write  a  volume  where  the  orator  has 
produced  only  a  few  pages :  for,  vast  as  the  latter's  genius 
and  labours  are,  great  as  have  been  his  services,  and 
keen  as  are  often  his  views  regarding  the  events  and  cir- 
cumstances of  his  own  time,  we  suspect  that  there  are 
very  few  who  would  be  disposed  to  take  his  ideas  for 
their  own  and  to  believe  implicitly  in  his  story.  Lord 
Brougham's  exploits  in  literature,  law,  and  politics  have 
been  chiefly  those  of  a  partisan ;  and  as  he  has  had,  to 
our  thinking,  too  strong  a  wit  and  too  weak  a  character 
to  allow  him  to  enter  the  foremost  rank  of  great  men  of 
his  time,  he  has  likewise  too  great  a  vanity  and  too  small 
a  principle  to  be  its  historian.  You  may  hope  from  such 
a  person  much  brilliancy  of  remark,  and  occasional  truth ; 
for  his  genius  is  great  and  his  heart  good  and  generous 
in  the  main;  but  the  entire  truth  cannot  be  expected 
from  him.  Much  of  it  he  cannot  see,  and  much  he  does 
not  choose  to  tell.  Ceaseless  puffs  of  spleen  ruffle  the 
surface  of  his  mind,  and  distort  the  proportion  of  the 
images  reflected  in  it.  His  vanity  is  employed  in  mak- 
ing perpetual  excuses  for  his  principle,  and  thus  it  con- 
tinually thwarts  his  genius.  While  the  one  is  wide  and 
kindly,  the  other  is  meanly  unreasoning  and  jealous ;  as 


Journalism  an&  dDarriage  119 

is  commonly  the  case,  of  the  two  adverse  principles  the 
latter  is  the  more  active ;  and  as  we  have  often  seen  in 
marriages  how  a  wise  man  will  give  himself  abjectly  over 
to  the  guidance  of  a  shrew,  Lord  Brougham's  wisdom  is 
perpetually  at  the  feet  of  his  vanity,  which  in  the  con- 
tests between  them  is  pretty  sure  to  have  the  last  word." 

He  sent  to  Cruikshank's  Comic  Annual,  Stubbs'  Cal- 
endar, or  the  Fatal  Boots,  and  to  Fraser,  in  June,  A 
Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts,*  and  The  Great  Kossack 
Epic  of  Demetrius  Rigmarolovicz.  Translated  by  a  Lady 
(the  Legend  of  St.  Sophia  of  Kioff  of  the  Ballads) ;  in 
September  The  French  Plutarch;  (i)  Cartouche' s  High- 
ways and  Byways,  and  (2)  Little  Poinsinet;  in  October 
The  Fetes  of  July,  and  in  December  The  French  School 
of  Painting. 

I  am  inclined  to  include  in  this  list  of  Thackeray's 
writings  for  1839  both  Paris  Pastimes  for  the  Month  of 
May,  and  Paris  Revels  of  the  isth  of  May  (Fraser,  June 
and  August)  written  in  the  form  of  letters  to  "Dear 
Fraser,"  and  signed  "You  know  who," — the  fact  that 
they  are  not  signed  Titmarsh  being  no  argument  against 
my  contention,  since,  as  he  was  writing  so  much  for  the 
magazine,  it  may  have  been  advisable  to  use  another 
nom-de-plume. 

Thackeray  was  undoubtedly  anxious  to  increase  his 
income,  which,  when  all  the  claims  upon  his  purse  were 

*A  good  many  of  Thackeray's  contributions  to  Eraser's  Magazine 
were  in  the  form  of  letters,  and  his  headings  to  these  are  often  very 
amusing.  I  give  a  couple  of  examples:  The  Strictures  on  Pictures 
is  from  Mr.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  to  Monsieur  Anatole  Victor 
Isodore  Hyacinthe  Achille  Hercule  de  Bric-a-brac,  peintre  (Thistoire, 
Rue  Mouffleard,  a  Paris  ;  while  the  Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts 
is  written  by  the  same  gentleman  to  another  Mr.  Bricabrac,  evidently 
some  relation  of  the  first-mentioned  owner  of  the  name.  This  one  is 
to  Citoyen  Brutus  Napoleon  Bricabrac,  Refuge  d'avril,  Bless6  de  mai, 
Condamne"  de  juin,  Decore"  de  juillet,  etc.  Hotel  Dieu,  a  Paris. 


120         TKHUliam  /IDafeepeace  Ubacfteras 

settled,  must  have  been  a  very  meagre  competence,  and 
he  endeavoured  (Charles  Mackay  said)  during  this  year 
to  obtain  the  post  of  sub-editor  to  the  Morning  Chron- 
icle— fortunately,  without  success.  It  was  also  about 
the  same  time  that  Mr.  Cole,  of  the  South  Kensington 
Science  and  Art  Department,  recommended  him  for  serv- 
ice in  the  Anti-Corn-Law-League,  to  Cobden.  "The 
artist, ' '  so  ran  the  letter,  "  is  a  genius  both  with  his  pen 
and  his  pencil.  His  vocation  is  literary.  He  is  full  of 
humour  and  feeling.  Hitherto  he  has  not  had  occasion 
to  think  much  on  the  subject  of  Corn  Laws,  and  there- 
fore wants  the  stuff  to  work  upon.  He  would  like  to 
combine  both  writing  and  drawing,  when  sufficiently 
primed,  and  then  he  would  write  illustrated  ballads,  or 
tales,  or  anything.  I  think  you  would  find  him  a  useful 
auxiliary. 

Cobden  suggested,  as  a  subject  for  illustration,  the 
Poles  on  one  side  of  a  stream,  offering  bread  to  starving 
people,  standing  on  the  other;  a  demon  in  the  centre 
preventing  the  exchange.  Cole  carried  the  idea  to 
Thackeray,  who  returned  him  a  rough  sketch  with  a 
letter. 

"Dear  Sir,"  he  wrote,  "I  shall  be'glad  to  do  a  single 
drawing,  series,  or  what  you  will,  for  money,  but  I  think 
the  one  you  sent  me  would  not  be  effective  enough  for 
the  Circular,  the  figures  are  too  many  for  so  small  a  sized 
block,  and  the  meaning  mysterious — the  river,  to  be  a 
river,  should  occupy  a  deuce  of  a  space"  [here  he  intro- 
duced a  loose  sketch] — "even  this  fills  up  your  length 
almost.  What  do  you  think  of  a  howling  group  with 
this  motto :  Give  us  this  day  our  Daily  Bread.  The 
words  are  startling.  Of  course  I  will  do  the  proposed 
design  if  you  wish." 


•Journalism  anfc  /iDarria^e  121 

At  this  time  Thackeray  was  trying  a  new  method  of 
engraving  (invented  by  a  Mr.  Schonblung,  of  Hatton 
Garden)  which,  from  Thackeray's  next  letter,  dated  June 
29,  1839,  did  not  seem  to  be  an  unqualified  success. 

"MY  DEAR  SlR, — I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  of  my 
misfortunes.  I  have  made  three  etchings  on  the 
Schonblung  plan,  of  the  Anglo-allegory,  and  they  have 
all  failed;  that  is,  Schonblung  considers  they  are  not  fit 
for  his  process ;  that  is,  I  fear  the  process  will  not  succeed 
yet.  I  shall,  however,  do  the  drawing  to-morrow  on  a 
wood-block,  and  will  send  it  to  you  sans  faute,  unless  I 
hear  you  are  not  inclined  to  deal  with  a  person  who  has 
caused  so  much  delay. 

"Yours  ever, 
"(Signed}   W.   M.THACKERAY." 

He  eventually  contributed  two  wood-cuts  to  the 
Anti-Corn-Law-Circular:  the  first,  Poles  Offering  Corn, 
appeared  in  No.  8  (July  23),  and  the  second,  The  Choice 
of  a  Loaf,  in  No.  18  (December  10). 

And  now  to  refer  again  to  the  most  important  of  all 
these  articles,  reviews,  and  tales — the  first  of  his  more 
ambitious  attempts — Catherine,  which  appeared  in  Fraser 
during  May,  June,  July,  August,  November,  1839,  and 
January,  1840. 

Mr.  Sala  has  related  somewhere  that  the  public  soon 
forgot  that  Catherine  was  a  professed  satire  on  the  New- 
gate novels,  and  became  absorbed  and  fascinated  by  a 
wonderfully  realistic  fiction;  while  some  of  the  critics 
spoke  of  the  tale  as  "one  of  the  dullest,  most  vulgar, 
and  immoral  works  extant."  Of  course,  Thackeray  was 
delighted  at  the  abuse,  and  expressed  himself  very 


122         William  /iDafeepeace  trbacfeeras 

"pleased  with  the  disgust  which  his  work  has  excited." 
And  well  he  might  be,  for  he  had  obtained  exactly 
what  he  wanted.  Still,  satire  and  irony  are  very  dan- 
gerous weapons,  since  often,  by  virtue  of  their  very 
intensity,  they  are  read  as  serious  earnest ;  and  the  peo- 
ple who  were  disgusted  with  Catherine,  probably,  some 
years  later,  thought  Thackeray  an  admirer  of  Barry 
Lyndon,  Esq.,  and  had  always  held  Henry  Fielding  to 
be  a  staunch  sympathiser  with  Mr.  Jonathan  Wild. 

Catherine,  clever  as  it  undoubtedly  is,  did  not  at  the 
time  much  advance  Thackeray's  reputation  or  increase 
his  popularity — he  was  still  regarded  only  as  a  useful 
writer  of  magazine  articles,  and  a  fairly  competent  art 
critic. 

In  1840  Macrone — who  had  brought  out  Dickens's 
earliest  volume,  Sketches  by  Boz — published  Thackeray's 
first  book,  The  Paris  Sketch  Book,  in  two  volumes ;  but 
the  Sketch  Book,  which  was  dedicated  to  a  tailor  who  had 
once  done  Thackeray  a  kindness,  and  consisted  of  a  col- 
lection of  articles  and  tales,  about  half  of  which  had 
already  appeared  in  the  magazines,  was  not  well  received 
by  the  public — and  certainly  it  contains  nothing  of  any 
astonishing  merit,  though  there  is  much  that  is  well 
written  and  interesting.* 

During  the  year  he  sent  to  Fraser,  Epistles  to  the 

Literati  XI 77.,  Ch s  Y — U — wpl — sh  to  Sir  Edward 

Lytton  Bulwer,  Bart.,  John  Thomas  Smith,  Esq.,  to 

*The  Parts  Sketch  £006  contains  the  following  articles  and  stories, 
of  which  the  first  eight  were  reprints:  An  Invasion  of  France,  The 
Fetes  of  July,  On  the  French  School  of  Painting,  Cartouche,  The 
Story  of  Mary  Ancel,  Little  Poinsinet,  The  Devil's  Wager,  Madame 
Sand  and  the  New  Apocalypse,  A  Caution  to  Travellers,  The 
Painter's  Bargain,  On  Some  French  Fashionable  Novels,  A  Gambler's 
Death,  Napoleon  and  His  System,  Beatrice  Merger,  Caricatures  and 
Lithography  in  Paris,  The  Case  of  Peytel,  French  Dramas  and 
Melodramas,  and  Meditations  at  Versailles. 


•Journalism  anfc  flDarrtaae  123 

C s  Y h,  Esq.  (January),  and  a  Pictorial  Rhapsody 

(June,  July).  The  July  paper  ended  abruptly.  A  note 
was  added  nominally  by  "Oliver  Yorke" — "He  has  not 
been  heard  of  since  the  first  day  of  June.  He  was  seen 
on  that  day  pacing  Waterloo  Bridge  for  two  hours;  but 
whether  he  plunged  into  the  river,  or  took  advantage  of 
the  steamboat,  and  went  down  in  it  only,  we  cannot 
state."  After  making  inquiries, from  the  waiter  at  Mor- 
land's  Hotel,  where  Titmarsh  had  been  staying,  he 
unravelled  the  mystery.  "This  is  conclusive,"  he  then 
continued.  "Our  departed  friend  had  many  faults,  but 
he  is  gone,  and  we  need  not  discuss  them  now.  It 
appears  that  on  the  first  of  June  the  Morning  Post  pub- 
lished a  criticism  upon  him,  accusing  him  of  ignorance, 
bad  taste,  and  partiality.  His  gentle  and  susceptible 
spirit  could  not  brook  the  rebuke ;  he  was  not  angry ;  he 
did  not  retort;  but  his  heart  broke.  Peace  to  his  ashes! 
A  couple  of  volumes  of  his  works,  we  see  by  our  adver- 
tisements, are  about  immediately  to  appear." 

This  is  the  criticism  to  which  the  laughing  reference 
is  made : 

"Among  other  papers  in  the  magazine  is  what  is  called 
A  Pictorial  Rhapsody  upon  the  Royal  Academy,  in  which 
great  personal  favouritism  and  general  bad  taste  in  the 
criticism  is  boldly  and  unscrupulously  indulged.  The 
absurdities  of  this  notice  are  plenty,  &s\&  parmi  les  autres, 
the  writer  defends  Mulready  and  the  postage  cover." 

The  Bedford  Row  Conspiracy,  which  was  adapted  from 
a  story  by  Charles  de  Bernand,  was  printed  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine  for  January  and  March;  while 
to  the  Comic  Annual  he  sent  Barber  Cox,  and  the  Cutting 
of  his  Comb,  on  which  has  been  founded  the  well-known 
Dutch  comedy  Janus  Tulp.  An  essay  on  The  Genius  of 


124         TKHUliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

George  Cruikshank,  which  appeared  in  the  Westminster 
Review,  sign  —  was  a  kindly  service  to  an  artist  whom 
the  public  were  forgetting.  It  was  immediately 
reprinted  separately,  and  published. 

For  some  time  past  Thackeray  had  had  the  rather 
morbid  desire  to  see  a  man  hanged.  Years  before,  at 
Paris,  he  had  gone  to  see  an  execution,  but  had  missed 
the  dismal  spectacle.  Now,  however,  he  eagerly 
accepted  an  invitation,  dated  July  2nd,  1840,  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  death  of  Curvoisier. 

"Mv  DEAR  MILNES, — I  shall  be  very  pleased  to 
make  one  at  the  Hanging,  and  shall  expect  you  here. 

"Yours  ever, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

It  was  customary,  then,  when  the  hanging  took  place 
at  five  or  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  for  the  intending 
spectators  to  "make  a  night  of  it,"  and  to  go  eastwards 
after  a  very  late  supper,  and  evidently  Monckton  Milnes 
wrote  to  suggest  that  this  should  be  done,  for  on  the 
next  day  Thackeray  wrote  to  him  again.  "You  must 
not  think  me  inhospitable  in  refusing  to  sit  up.  I  must 
go  to  bed,  that's  the  fact,  or  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
attend  to  the  work  of  to-morrow  properly.  If  you  like 
to  come  here  and  have  a  sofa,  it  is  at  your  service,  but  I 
most  strongly  recommend  sleep  as  a  preparative  to  the 
day's  pleasure." 

Thackeray's  experiences  were  told  in  Fraser  in  the 
article  entitled  Going  to  see  a  man  hanged.  In  this  he 
spoke  his  mind  in  no  measured  terms. 


journalism  anfc  flDarriage  125 

"There  is  some  talk  of  the  terror  which  the  sight  of 
this  spectacle  inspires.  ...  I  fully  confess  that  I 
came  away  .  .  .  that  morning  with  a  disgust  for 
murder,  but  it  was  for  the  murder  I  saw  done. 

"This  is  the  twentieth  of  July,  and  I  may  be  per- 
mitted, for  my  part,  to  declare  that,  for  the  last  fourteen 
days,  so  salutary  has  the  impression  of  the  butchery 
been  upon  me,  I  have  had  the  man's  face  continually 
before  my  eyes;  that  I  can  see  Mr.  Ketch  at  this  mo- 
ment, with  an  easy  air,  taking  the  rope  from  his  pocket ; 
that  I  feel  myself  ashamed  and  degraded  at  the  brutal 
curiosity  which  took  me  to  that  brutal  sight ;  and  that  I 
pray  to  Almighty  God  to  cause  this  disgraceful  sin  to 
pass  from  among  us,  and  to  cleanse  our  land  of  blood." 

Four  years  later,  at  Cairo,  when  he  was  invited  to 
witness  a  similar  spectacle,  he  only  replied,  "Seeing  one 
man  hanged  is  quite  enough  in  the  course  of  a  life.  J'y 
ai  tie",  as  the  Frenchman  said  of  hunting." 

In  The  Irish  Sketch  Book  he  repeated  the  sentiments 
expressed  in  the  Fraser  article: — 

"I  confess,  for  my  part,  to  that  common  cant  and 
sickly  sentimentality,  which,  thank  God!  is  felt  by  a 
great  number  of  people  nowadays,  and  which  leads  them 
to  revolt  against  murder,  whether  performed  by  a  ruf- 
fian's knife  or  a  hangman's  rope;  whether  accompanied 
with  a  curse  from  the  thief  as  he  blows  his  victim's 
brains  out,  or  a  prayer  from  my  lord  on  the  bench  in  his 
wig  and  black  cap."  But  nevertheless,  there  is  reason 
to  believe  that  he  eventually  changed  his  opinion  in  this 
matter,  for  when  one  day  Mr.  Bedingfield  told  him  that 
he  had  just  read  the  "Hanging"  article  with  admiration, 
he  remarked,  "I  think  I  was  wrong.  My  feelings  were 


i26         TKUilliam  flDafeepeace 

overwrought.     These   murderers  are  such   devils,    after 
all." 

Still,  if  he  ceased  to  advocate  the  abolition  of  the 
death-sentence,  he  always  insisted  that  the  ceremony 
should  be  performed  in  private,  and  not  before  audiences 
of  forty  to  fifty  thousand  persons,  many  of  whom  were 
children  of  tender  years. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE   TRAGEDY   OF  HIS   MARRIED   LIFE 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    TRAGEDY    OF  HIS   MARRIED   LIFE 

rT~*HE  best-remembered  work  of  this  year  (1840)  is  The 
-i-  Shabby  Genteel  Story,  which  appeared  in  Fraser  in 
June,  July,  August,  and  October — by  which  time  nine 
chapters  had  been  printed — when  it  was  suddenly  and 
abruptly  brought  to  a  conclusion  without  a  word  of 
explanation. 

When,  however,  the  fragment  was  reprinted  in  the 
Miscellanies  (published  in  1857)  a  note  was  prefixed  by 
the  author — which  to  those  who  knew  of  his  misfortune 
was  very  touching.  "It  was  my  intention,"  so  it  ran, 
"to  complete  the  little  story  of  which  only  the  first  part 
is  here  written.  .  .  .  The  tale  was  interrupted  at  a 
sad  period  of  the  writer's  own  life.  The  colours  are 
long  since  dry;  the  artist's  hand  is  changed.  It  is  best 
to  leave  the  sketch  as  it  was  when  it  was  first  designed 
seventeen  years  ago.  The  memory  of  the  past  is 
renewed  as  he  looks  at  it. 

'  Die  Bilder  f  roher  Tage 
Und  manche  liebe  Schatten  steigen  auf.' " 

The  explanation  of  the  abrupt  conclusion  of  the 
Shabby  Genteel  Story  is  indeed  very  sad. 

In  May,  his  third  child,  Harriet  Marion — afterwards 
Mrs.  Leslie  Stephen — was  born,  and  his  wife  became 
very  ill.  The  illness  eventually  affected  her  mind,  and 
Thackeray,  who  regarded  this  as  only  a  natural  sequence 

129 


i3°         TWlilliam  /iDafeepeace 

of  the  illness,  which  would  pass  away  in  time,  when  her 
health  was  restored,  threw  all  business  aside,  sent  his 
children  to  their  grandparents  at  Paris,  and  for  many 
months  travelled  with  his  wife  from  watering-place  to 
watering-place,  as  the  doctors  as  a  last  resource  had 
recommended,  hoping  against  hope  that  the  cloud  on 
her  intellect  would  dissolve. 

Writing  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  some  ten  years  later,  he 
recalled  this  period:  "As  I  am  waiting  ...  I  find 
an  old  review  containing  a  great  part  of  an  article  I 
wrote  about  Fielding  in  1840  in  the  Times.  .  .  .  My 
wife  was  just  sickening  at  that  moment;  I  wrote  it  at 
Margate  where  I  had  taken  her,  and  used  to  walk  out 
three  miles  to  a  little  bowling  green,  and  write  there  in 
an  arbour — coming  home  and  wondering  what  was  the 
melancholy  oppressing  the  poor  little  woman.  The 
Times  gave  me  five  guineas  for  the  article.  I  recollect 
I  thought  it  rather  shabby  pay,  and  twelve  days  after  it 
appeared  in  the  paper,  my  poor  little  wife's  malady 
showed  itself.  How  queer  it  is  to  be  carried  back  all  of 
a  sudden  to  that  time  and  all  that  belonged  to  it,  and 
read  this  article  over;  doesn't  the  apology  for  Fielding 
read  like  an  apology  for  somebody  else,  too?  God  help 
us!  what  a  deal  of  cares  and  pleasures  and  struggles  and 
happiness  I  have  had  since  that  day  in  the  little  sunshiny 
arbour,  where,  with  scarcely  any  money  in  my  pocket, 
and  two  little  children  (Minnie  was  a  baby  two  months 
old),  I  was  writing  this  notice  about  Fielding.  Grief, 
Love,  Fame,  if  you  like — I  have  had  no  little  of  all  since 
then  (I  don't  mean  to  take  the  fame  for  more  than  its 
worth  or  brag  about  it  with  any  peculiar  elation)." 

At  last  Thackeray  was  compelled  to  realise  the  truth — 
that  his  poor  wife  would  never  recover  sufficiently  to 


Ura0et>g  ot  bis  flDarriefc  %ife       131 

undertake  the  duties  of  a  mother  and  a  wife.  She  was 
unable  to  manage  her  life,  though  she  took  interest  in 
any  pleasant  things  around  her,  especially  in  music;  but 
it  was  essential  that  she  should  be  properly  cared  for, 
and,  with  this  object,  she  was  placed  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Thompson  at  Leigh,  in  Essex.  She  outlived  her  hus- 
band by  so  many  years  that  it  was  with  a  shock,  having 
already  been  dead  to  the  world  for  nearly  forty  years, 
that  the  announcement  of  her  death,  in  January,  1894, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  was  read.  She  was  interred 
in  the  same  grave  at  Kensal  Green  cemetery  as  her  hus- 
band. 

How  sad,  how  awful,  it  was!  The  man  with  his 
great  heart,  with  his  yearning  for  love  and  affection  that, 
from  this  time  forth,  breathes  through  all  his  letters  and 
all  his  books! 

' '  I  cannot  live  without  the  tenderness  of  some  woman, ' ' 
he  wrote,  with  the  mixture  of  tears  and  laughter  that  is 
the  characteristic  of  all  his  later  works,  "and  expect 
when  I  am  sixty,  I  shall  be  marrying  a  girl  of  eleven  or 
twelve,  innocent,  barley-sugar-loving,  in  a  pinafore." 
To  be  separated  from  the  woman  he  had  chosen  for  his 
companion  through  life,  and  who  had  cheered  him  when 
his  fortunes  were  at  a  very  low  ebb,  and  his  reputation 
was  not  yet  made !  How  hard  it  was  she  should  be 
taken  from  him  before  she  could  enjoy  the  great  fame 
and  good  fortune!  How  much  he  loved  her,  and  how 
much  he  felt  the  blow  that  had  shattered  his  happiness 
and  his  home,  he  never  divulged ;  he  was  not  a  man  to 
parade  his  domestic  sorrows  in  public — he  might  think 
of  them  in  solitude,  but  if  a  visitor  entered  he  would 
immediately  look  up  with  a  smile  and  a  joke — both 
forced.  Still,  from  one  source  and  another,  it  has  been 


is2         TKailliam  flDafeepeace 

possible  to  glean  something  of  the  deep  and  sacred  grief 
which  Thackeray  felt  on  his  return  alone,  and  worse 
than  alone,  to  the  desolate  house  in  Great  Coram  Street. 

"I  was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long  with  her,"  he 
told  one  of  his  cousins;  and  one  day  when  Trollope's 
groom  said  to  him,  "I  hear  you  have  written  a  book 
upon  Ireland,  and  are  always  making  fun  of  the  Irish; 
you  don't  like  us,"  Thackeray's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
he  thought  of  his  wife — born  in  County  Cork — and  he 
replied,  turning  away  his  head,  "God  help  me!  all  that 
I  have  loved  best  in  the  world  is  Irish." 

Again  in  after  years,  referring  to  The  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond,  which  was  composed  during  this  period  of 
great  unhappiness,  he  remarked  that  it  ''was  written  at 
a  time  when  the  writer  was  suffering  under  the  severest 
personal  grief  and  calamity,"  "at  a  time  of  great  afflic- 
tion, when  my  heart  was  very  soft  and  humble.  Amen. 
Ich  habe  auch  geliebt." 

Well  might  Thackeray  echo  the  lines  of  poor  broken- 
hearted Thekla's  swan-song: — 

"  Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Gluck, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet." 

Yet  even  in  his  bitterest  moments  he  did  not  cry, 
with  Thekla: — 

"Das  Herz  ist  gestorben,  die  Welt  ist  leer, 
Und  waiter  giebt  sie  dem  Wunsche  nicht  mehr," 

for,  even  in  his  most  bitter  grief,  Thackeray  remem- 
bered his  children  and  his  parents;  and  the  man  who, 
on  hearing  of  a  certain  noble  lady  who,  it  was  said,  had 
died  of  grief  at  her  husband's  death,  only  remarked, 

"Ah!  had  she  been  Mrs.  X ,  the  washerwoman,  with 

sixteen  children  to  provide  for,  she  would  not  have 
died,"  set  himself  resolutely  to  work  to  make  money  so 


Ube  Uragefcs  of  bis  flDarrieo  OLife       133 


that  when  his  children  were  old  enough  he  could  provide 
a  comfortable  home  for  them,  dower  them  well,  and, 
when  he  died,  leave  them,  at  least,  a  competency. 
From  this  time,  more  than  ever,  the  thought  of  his 
children  was  the  mainspring  of  most  of  his  actions.  "I 
sat  up  with  the  children  and  talked  to  them  of  their 
mother,"  he  told  Mrs.  Brookfield.  "It  is  my  pleasure 
to  tell  them  how  humble-minded  their  mother  was." 
We  see  him  taking  them  to  the  Colosseum  on  their  birth- 
day ;  or  to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  where  they  all  amuse 
themselves  in  finding  likenesses  to  their  friends  in  many 
of  the  animals.  ("Thank  EvnsT'  is  Thackeray's  expres- 
sion of  gratitude,  "both  of  the  girls  have  plenty  of  fun 
and  humour");  or,  when  he  is  very  tired,  having  been 
at  the  opening  of  the  Great  Exhibition,  he  goes  with 
them  to  the  play  "in  recompense  for  their  disappoint- 
ment in  not  getting  to  the  Exhibition,  which  they  had 
hopes  of  seeing." 

It  was  for  the  sake  of  his  children  that  he  battled  with 
his  constitutional  timidity,  and  nerved  himself  to  deliver 
the  two  series  of  lectures  —  he,  to  whom  public  speaking 
was  misery;  and  solely  on  their  account  he  made  his 
trips  to  America,  hating  the  separation  from  them,  and 
longing  all  the  time  of  his  absence  for  the  day  of  his 
return. 

It  is  a  painful  subject  to  dwell  upon  —  even  for  those 
who  never  knew  or  even  saw  Thackeray;  a  picture  of 
fearful  sadness  to  conjure  up  —  this  dreadful  domestic 
affliction. 

His  fortune  lost,  his  talents  unrecognised  except  in  a 
very  small  circle,  his  second  child  dead,  his  beloved  wife 
taken  from  him  !  Is  it  marvellous  that  Thackeray  was 
able  to  see  the  existence  of  evil  as  well  as  of  good  in  the 


134         THttilHam  /iDaftepeace 

world?  The  wonder  is  that  he  did  not  become  a  second 
Swift,  lashing  the  world  and  himself  with  a  savage  satire, 
blaspheming  at  God,  cursing  at  man,  sneering  at  good 
and  evil  alike,  in  some  new  Gulliver  s  Travels.  Instead, 
however,  the  great  sorrow  chastened  his  soul,  and  made 
his  later  writings  more  sympathetic  than  his  earlier;  and 
the  only  use  he  made  of  his  grand  power  of  sarcasm  was 
to  chide,  nearly  always  with  gentle  hand,  the  follies  of  his 
fellow-men,  in  the  endeavour  to  show  to  them  the  path 
of  honour,  virtue,  goodness,  and  mercy,  which  he  himself 
endeavoured  to  follow. 

What  words  can  so  fitly  close  this  brief  account  of  the 
terrible  tragedy  of  Thackeray's  married  life  as  his  own? 

"Canst  thou,  O  friendly  reader,  count  upon  the  fidel- 
ity of  an  artless  heart  or  tender  or  true,  and  reckon 
among  the  blessings  which  Heaven  hath  bestowed  on 
thee,  the  love  of  faithful  women?  Purify  thine  own 
heart,  and  try  to  make  it  worthy  of  theirs.  All  the 
prizes  of  life  are  nothing  compared  to  that  one.  All  the 
rewards  of  ambition,  wealth,  pleasure,  only  vanity  -and 
disappointment,  grasped  at  greedily  and  fought  for 
fiercely,  and  over  and  over  again  found  worthless  by  the 
weary  winners." 


CHAPTER   IX 

CLUB  LIFE 


CHAPTER   IX 
CLUB  LIFE 

WHEN  deprived  of  his  home,  Thackeray,  who  was 
still  under  thirty,  of  necessity  lived  a  bachelor 
life,  went  everywhere,  saw  everything,  and  met  every- 
body; but  he  never  forgot  his  self-respect,  or  the  pecu- 
liar position  in  which  he  was  placed.  He  did  his  best  to 
be  happy,  and  made  the  best  of  his  life  as  his  philosophy 
taught  him ;  but  there  was  no  vice  in  him,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  enemies  (made  chiefly  by  criticisms  and  satirical 
writings)  no  word  of  scandal  was  ever  breathed  against  him. 
He  became  a  frequenter  of  clubs.  He  had  long  been 
a  member  of  the  Garrick,  which  then  had  its  club-house 
in  King  Street,  Covent  Garden,  the  new  building  in 
Garrick  Street  not  being  completed  until  a  year  after  his 
death.  This  was  his  favourite  resort.  "We,  the  happy 
initiated,  never  speak  of  it  as  the  Garrick ;  to  us  it  is  the 
G.,  the  little  G.,  the  dearest  place  in  the  world,"  he 
declared  in  a  speech  at  a  Shakespeare  Birthday  Dinner, 
then  an  annual  event  at  the  Club.  The  immense  influ- 
ence he  obtained  here  was  shown  nearly  twenty  years 
later,  when  he  quarrelled  with  Mr.  Yates.* 

*There  was  a  member  of  the  Garrick  whose  presence  and  speech 
seemed  to  irritate  him,  and  who  found  pleasure  in  exercising  his 
power  as  gadfly  on  a  thoroughbred  horse.  One  night  in  the  smoke- 
room,  Thackeray  was  in  the  middle  of  a  most  interesting  story,  when 
his  enemy  suddenly  entered.  To  every  one's  surprise  Thackeray 
hesitated  and  stopped,  on  which  his  persecutor,  assuming  an  air  of 
the  most  gracious  patronage,  blandly  encouraged  him  with,  "  Proceed, 
sweet  warbler;  thy  story  interests  me." — The  Memories  of  Dean  Hole. 

'37 


is8         TWlilUam  /iDafcepeace 

He  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Reform  Club  in 
April,  1840,  being  proposed  by  Mr.  Martin  Thackeray, 
and  seconded  by  Mr.  Henry  Webbe.  There  is  an  inter- 
esting description  of  Thackeray  at  this  Club  in  CasselV s 
Magazine  (June,  1897)  by  Sir  Wemyss  Reid,  in  an 
article  called  Some  Club  Ghosts. 

"In  the  morning-room  the  chair  at  which  he  used  to 
sit  when  writing  his  letter  is  still  pointed  out ;  and  again 
and  again  I  have  heard  descriptions  of  how  he  used  to 
stand  in  the  smoking-room,  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  legs 
rather  wide  apart,  his  hands  thrust  into  the  trouser- 
pockets,  and  his  head  stiffly  thrown  backward,  while  he 
joined  in  the  talk  of  the  men  occupying  the  semi-circle 
of  chairs  in  front  of  him.  No  man  has  made  more  use 
of  the  Reform  Club  in  his  writings  than  Thackeray  has 
done.  It  is  described  minutely  in  Brown's  Letters  to  his 
Nephew;  it  figures  in  many  of  his  novels;  it  made  its 
own  contribution  to  the  Snob  Papers. 

"One  of  the  most  amusing  legends  concerning  the 
great  writer  is  connected  with  the  place.  Going  into 
the  coffee-room  of  the  Reform  Club  one  afternoon,  he 
chanced  to  see  on  the  menu  of  the  day  'beans  and  bacon.' 
He  was  to  dine  with  some  eminent  personage  that  night, 
but  'beans  and  bacon'  were  more  than  he  could  resist. 
Straightway  he  betook  himself  to  the  morning-room  and 
penned  a  note  to  his  host,  telling  him  that  he  could  not 
have  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  him, as  he  had  just  met 
a  very  old  friend  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  and 
from  whom  he  could  not  tear  himself.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  coffee-room  and  dined  satisfactorily  off  his 
beloved  dish  in  a  corner.  So  runs  the  tale.  Let  us 
hope  that  it  is  true.  .  .  .  But  we  have  no  Thackeray 
now.  To  some  of  us,  at  least,  the  Club  is  endeared  by 


Club  Xife  139 

the  thought  that  he  was  once  one  of  ourselves;  that  he 
sat  in  these  chairs,  dined  at  these  tables,  chatted  in  these 
rooms,  and  with  his  wise,  far-seeing  eyes  surveyed  the 
world  from  these  same  windows." 

Later,  on  February  12,  1846,  Thackeray  was  put  up 
at  the  Athenaeum  Club,  by  the  Rev.  W.  Harrenn,  and 
seconded  by  Charles  Buller,  junr.  The  ballot  took 
place  in  January,  1850,  when,  to  the  general  surprise, 
the  author  of  Vanity  Fair  and  Pendennis  was  black- 
balled* All  his  supporters  were  furious,  and  Dean  Mil- 
man  immediately  wrote  to  Abraham  Hayward  a  letter 
that  no  doubt  he  intended  should  be  shown  to  Thack- 
eray. 

"  CLOISTERS,  January  30,  1850. 

"Mv  DEAR  HAYWARD, — I  cannot  say  how  much  I 
am  annoyed  by  the  failure  of  my  attempt  to  bring  in 
Thackeray  at  the  Athenaeum.  But  there  is  no  counting 
on  the  stubborn  stupidity  of  man.  One  voice,  you  know 
excludes,  and  among  eighteen  committee-men  that  there 
should  not  be  one  self-conceited — I  must  not  fill  up  this 
sentence.  We  are  bound  not  to  reveal  the  secrets  of 
our  Conciliabulum,  but  I  may  say  it  was  curious  to  see 
Macaulay  and  Croker  row  together  in  my  boat  with 
Martin,  etc.,  etc.  If  I  had  not  thought  myself  sure  of 
my  success,  I  should  not  have  subjected  Thackeray  to 
the  chance  of  rejection.  Pray  assure  him  of  my  regret 
and  disappointment. 

"Ever  truly  yours, 

"H.  H.  MlLMAN." 

*" He"  [Thackeray]  "had  the  honour  of  being  rejected  at  the 
'  Travellers '  (1856);  and  the  ruling  majority  (the  ballot  is  by  the  mem- 
bers, not  by  the  committee)  gave  as  a  reason  that  they  were  afraid  of 
seeing  themselves  in  some  novel  of  the  future." — JOHN  HOLLINGS- 
HEAD,  My  Lifetime. 


140         TOlliam  dDafeepeace 

"Every  man  whose  opinion  Mr.  Thackeray  would 
value  was  with  him."* 

Thackeray  took  his  rejection  in  very  good  part.  "I 
was,"  he  wrote  to  Hayward,  "quite  prepared  for  the 
issue  of  the  kind  effort  made  at  the  Athenaeum  on  my 
behalf;  indeed,  as  a  satirical  writer,  I  rather  wonder  that 
I  have  not  made  more  enemies  than  I  have.  I  don't 
mean  enemies  m  a  bad  sense,  but  men  conscientiously 
opposed  to  my  style,  art,  opinions,  impertinences,  and 
so  forth.  There  must  be  thousands  of  men  to  whom  the 
practice  of  ridicule  must  be  very  offensive;  doesn't  one 
see  such  in  Society,  or  in  one's  own  family?  persons 
whom  nature  has  not  gifted  with  a  sense  of  humour. 
Such  a  man  would  be  wrong  not  to  give  me  a  blackball, 
or  whatever  it  is  called,  a  negatory  nod  of  his  honest, 
respectable,  stupid  old  head.  And  I  submit  to  this 
without  the  slightest  feeling  of  animosity  against  my 
judge.  Why?  Dr.  Johnson  would  certainly  have  black- 
balled Fielding,  whom  he  pronounced  'a  dull  fellow,  sir, 
a  dull  fellow' !  Didn't  I  tell  you  once  before 

that  I  feel  frightened  almost  at  the  kindness  of  people 
regarding  me?  May  we  all  be  honest  fellows,  and  keep 
our  heads  from  too  much  vanity." 

But  even  the  honest,  respectable  old  committee-man 
came  in  time  to  his  senses — or  perhaps  he  died.  Any- 
way, on  February  25,  in  the  following  year,  the  Club 
made  amends.  The  Committee  elected  Thackeray  under 
rule  ii,  which  provides  that  the  annual  introduction  of  a 
certain  number  of  "persons  of  distinguished  eminence  in 
science,  literature,  or  for  public  services,  shall  be  secured 
without  recourse  to  ballot." 

Thackeray's  name  appears  on  the  roll  of  the  Club  as 

*A  Selection  from  the  Correspondence  of  Abraham  Hayward,  Q.C. 


Club  Xife  141 

a  "barrister,"  but  he  was  elected  as  the  author  of 
Vanity  Fair,  Pendennis,  and  other  well-known  works  of 
fiction. 

In  later  years — about  November,  1861 — he  joined 
"Our  Club,"  which  had  been  founded  by  Douglas 
Jerrold.  This  was  a  social  and  literary  meeting,  and 
included  among  its  members  some  of  the  best  known  of 
Thackeray's  contemporaries  —  Mark  Lemon,  Leech, 
Horace  Mayhew,  and  Shirley  Brooks,  from  Punch;  Samuel 
Lucas  and  Davidson,  respectively  the  chief  literary  and 
the  musical  critic  of  the  Times;  Hepworth  Dixon,  of  the 
Athenczum;  the  publishers,  Robert  Chambers,  Evans  (of 
Bradbury  &  Evans),  Macmillan,  and  Hazlitt;  as  well  as 
James  Hannay,  David  Masson,  Charles  Knight,  George 
Jessel,  and  Charles  Lamb  Kenney.  The  Club,  with  its 
guinea  subscription,  was  next  door  to  Evans's,  and  the 
members  dined  in  a  room  on  an  upper  floor  of  Clunn's 
Hotel;  and  the  annual  dinner  in  June  was  held  either  at 
Blackwall,  Greenwich,  Richmond,  or  Hampton  Court. 
Mr.  Jeffreson  says  that  both  Thackeray  (who  had  a  nature 
of  almost  womanly  softness)  and  Jerrold  were  devoted  to 
Frederick  Hamstide,  the  hon.  secretary,  a  little  hunch- 
back, who  in  childhood  had  been  crippled  by  a  fall  from 
his  nurse's  arms. 

Mr.  Jeffreson,  the  historian  of  "Our  Club,"  gives,  in 
his  autobiography,  a  pleasant  picture  of  Thackeray.  "I 
cannot  conceive  him  to  have  ever  been  seen  to  greater 
advantage  than  when  he  was  sitting  with  a  party  of  his 
congenial  comrades  at  'Our  Club,'  gossipping  tenderly 
about  dead  authors,  artists,  and  actors,  or  cheerily  and 
in  the  kindliest  spirit  about  living  notabilities,"  he  writes. 
"It  was  very  pleasant  to  watch  the  white-haired  veteran, 
and  also  to  hear  him  (though  at  best  he  sang  indiffer- 


H2         THUllfam  flDafeepeace 

ently)  whilst  he  trotted  forth  his  favourite  ballads  touch- 
ing Little  Billie  and  Father  Martin  Luther.  Better  still 
it  was  to  regard  the  radiant  gratification  of  his  face, 
whilst  Horace  Mayhew  sang  The  Mahogany  Tree,  per- 
haps the  finest  and  most  soul-stirring  of  Thackeray's 
social  songs,  or  was  throwing  his  soul  into  the  passionate 
Marseillaise. ' ' 

No  list  of  Thackeray's  haunts  would  be  complete  that 
did  not  make  mention  of  another  place  where  he  was 
frequently  to  be, seen  at  work,  and  where,  like  so  many 
men  of  letters,  both  distinguished  and  unknown,  he  felt 
perfectly  happy  and  quite  at  home — I  refer  to  the  read- 
ing-rooms in  the  library  of  the  British  Museum. 

"Most  Londoners — not  all — have  seen  the  British 
Museum  Library,"  he  paid  tribute  in  a  Roundabout  Paper, 
"I  speak  h  cceur  ouvert,  and  pray  the  kindly  reader  to 
bear  with  me.  I  have  seen  all  sorts  of  domes  of  Peters 
and  Pauls,  Sophia,  Pantheon — what  not? — and  have 
been  struck  by  none  of  them  as  much  as  by  that  catholic 
dome  in  Bloomsbury,  under  which  our  million  volumes 
are  housed.  What  peace,  what  love,  what  truth,  what 
beauty,  what  happiness  for  all,  what  generous  kindness 
for  you  and  me,  are  here  spread  out!  It  seems  to  me 
one  cannot  sit  down  in  that  place  without  a  heart  full  of 
grateful  reverence.  I  own  to  have  said  my  grace  at  the 
table,  and  to  have  thanked  Heaven  for  this  my  English 
birthright,  freely  to  partake  of  these  bountiful  books, 
and  to  speak  the  truth  I  find  there." 

In  the  summer  of  1858,  Motley,  the  historian,  met 
Thackeray  there,  and  wrote  of  him  to  his  wife. 

"I  believe  you  have  never  seen  Thackeray,"  runs  his 
letter;  "he  has  the  appearance  of  a  colossal  infant — 
smooth  white  shiny  ringletty  hair,  flaxen,  alas!  with 


Club  Xife  143 

advancing  years,  a  roundish  face,  with  a  little  dab  of  a 
nose,  upon  which  it  is  a  perpetual  wonder  how  he  keeps 
his  spectacles,  a  sweet  but  rather  piping  voice,  with 
something  of  the  childish  treble  about  it,  and  a  very 
tall,  slightly  stooping  figure — such  are  the  characteristics 
of  the  great  snob  of  England.  His  manner  is  like  that 
of  every  one  else  in  England — nothing  original,  all 
planed  down  into  perfect  uniformity  with  that  of  his 
fellow-creatures.  There  was  not  much  more  distinction 
in  his  talk  than  in  his  white  choker,  or  black  coat  and 
waistcoat.  .  .  .  After  breakfast  I  went  down  to  the 
British  Museum.  I  had  been  immersed  half  an  hour  in 
my  manuscript,  when,  happening  to  turn  my  head 
round,  I  found  seated  next  to  me,  Thackeray,  with  a 
file  of  old  newspapers  before  him,  writing  the  ninth  num- 
ber of  The  Virginians.  He  took  off  his  spectacles  to 
see  who  I  was,  then  immediately  invited  me  to  dinner 
the  next  day  (as  he  seems  always  to  do,  every  one  he 
meets),  which  invitation  I  could  not  accept ;  and  he  then 
showed  me  the  page  he  had  been  writing,  a  small,  deli- 
cate legible  manuscript.  After  that  we  continued  our 
studies." 

There  is,  in  the  Manuscript  Department  of  the  British 
Museum  Library,  a  letter  written  by  Thackeray  to  Mr. 
(afterwards  Sir)  Anthony  Panizzi,  when  that  gentleman 
was  principal  Librarian.  The  letter,  which  I  believe  has 
never  yet  been  printed,  is  undated,  but  it  must  have 
been  written  early  in  1860,  since  it  evidently  refers  to 
the  select  Committee  of  the  House  of  Commons,  which 
was  ordered  on  April  24,  1860,  "to  enquire  into  the 
necessity  for  the  extension  of  the  British  Museum."  I 
have  examined  the  minutes  of  the  Committee,  before 
which  Panizzi,  Sir  Charles  Eastlake,  Austin  Layard,  Pro- 


144         TKflilltam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

fessors  Owen  and  Huxley,  Sir  Benjamin  Brodie,  Henry 
Cole,  and  Richard  Westmacott,  among  others,  were 
examined,  but  I  cannot  find  that  Thackeray  gave  evi- 
dence. The  letter  I  have  permission  to  insert  here. 

"  KENSINGTON,  Thursday. 

"MY  DEAR  PANIZZI, — I'm  writing  my  number  for 
dear  life;  only  got  your  number  2  letter  last  night,  the 
greater  part  of  which  I  passed  over  my  book,  and 
intended  upon  my  word  to  answer  you  this  very  after- 
noon as  soon  as  I  came  to  a  halt.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me;  I'm  half  crazy  with  my  work  and  other  annoyances 
at  this  minute. 

"I'll  gladly  come  and  say  in  behalf  of  the  B.  M.  what 
little  I  know — that  I've  always  found  the  very  greatest 
attention  and  aid  there — that  I  once  came  from  Paris  to 
London  to  write  an  article  in  a  review  about  French 
affairs — and  that  I  went  to  the  Bibliotheque  du  Roi,  I 
could  only  get  a  book  at  a  time,  and  no  sight  of  a  cata- 
logue. But  then,  I  didn't  go  often,  being  disgusted 
with  the  place,  and  entering  it  as  a  total  stranger,  with- 
out any  recommendation. 

"If  this  testimony  can  be  afforded  by  letter,  I  should 
like  it  much  better,  (it  is  some  years  old  now),  and,  if  by 
word  of  mouth,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  put  me  before  a 
House  of  Commons'  Committee  at  the  end  of  the  month. 

"And  don't  be  angry  with  me,  my  dear  old  fellow, 
for  not  writing,  indeed  I  thought  until  the  receipt  of 
number  2  last  night,  that  there  was  no  hurry  for  an 
answer,  and  that  I  might  put  it  off  till  my  confounded 
month's  work  was  done. 

"Yours  always  truly,  my  dear  Panizzi, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 


Club  OLife  H5 

Thackeray  was  also  a  frequent  visitor  to  places  of  a 
very  different  type.  He  loved  Bohemia,  and  left  an 
admirable  description  of  that  land  in  the  Adventures  of 
Philip. 

"A  pleasant  land,  not  fenced  with  drab  Stucco  like 
Tyburnia  or  Belgravia;  not  guarded  by  a  huge  standing 
army  of  footmen ;  not  echoing  with  noble  chariots ;  not 
replete  with  polite  chintz  drawing-rooms  and  neat  tea- 
tables  ;  a  lan/i  over  which  hangs  an  endless  fog,  occasioned 
by  much  tobacco ;  a  land  of  chambers,  billiard  rooms, 
supper  rooms,  oysters;  a  land  of  song;  a  land  where 
soda-water  flows  freely  in  the  morning;  a  land  of  tin 
dish-covers  from  taverns,  and  frothing  porter ;  a  land  of 
lotus-eating  (with  lots  of  cayenne  pepper),  of  pulls  on 
the  river,  of  delicious  reading  of  novels,  magazines,  and 
saunterings  in  many  studios ;  a  land  where  men  call  each 
other  by  their  Christian  names;  where  most  are  old, 
where  almost  all  are  young,  and  where,  if  a  few  oldsters 
enter,  it  is  because  they  have  preserved  more  tenderly 
and  carefully  than  others  their  youthful  spirits,  and  the 
delightful  capacity  to  be  idle.  I  have  lost  my  way  to 
Bohemia  now,  but  it  is  certain  that  Prague  is  the  most 
picturesque  city  in  the  world." 

Mr.  Vizetelly  has  recorded  that,  in  spite  of  Thackeray's 
love  for  ' '  Prague, ' '  there  was  at  least  one  of  the  customs 
of  the  inhabitants  that  he  disapproved  of.  "I  remem- 
ber," he  says,  "when  several  smart  young  writers — 
whose  success  had  emboldened  them  to  turn  their  backs 
on  Bohemia  and  most  of  its  free  and  easy  ways,  but  who 
were  still  somewhat  regardless  of  their  personal  appear- 
ance— were  frequent  guests  at  Thackeray's  dinner-table, 
where  every  courtesy  was  shown  them  by  their  distin- 
guished host.  After  one  of  these  entertainments  I  heard 


146         William  flDafeepeace 

him  remark — in  the  hope,  no  doubt,  that  the  hint  would 
be  conveyed  to  those  for  whom  it  was  intended,  'They 
are  all  capital  fellows,  but  wouldn't  be  a  whit  the  worse 
for  cleaner  shirts.'  ' 

Mr.  T.  H.  S.  Escott  mentions,  in  his  Platform  and 
Press,  that  Thackeray  frequently  dropped  in,  after  the 
play,  to  a  tiny  establishment  in  the  Strand  kept  by  two 
elderly  maiden  ladies,  respectable  to  primness,  for  fish 
suppers  and  other  light  refreshments.  Mr.  G.  A.  Sala 
recorded  how  he  first  met  Thackeray  at  a  small  club  on 
the  first  floor  of  a  little  old-fashioned  tavern  in  Dean 
Street,  Soho,  kept  by  one  Dicky  Moreland,  supposed  to 
have  been  the  last  landlord  in  London  who  wore  a  pig- 
tail and  top-boots,  and  how  Thackeray  that  night  sang 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Thackeray  was  an  original  member  of  the  Fielding 
Club,  the  title  of  which  was  chosen  by  him.  The  Club 
succeeded  the  C.  C.  C.  (Cyder  Cellars  Club)  and  was 
established  in  1852,  owing  to  the  impossibility  of  getting 
supper  at  the  Garrick  Club.  Among  the  members  were 
Andrew  Arcedeckne  (the  Foker  of  Pendennis),  Arthur 
Smith,  Sir  Charles  Taylor,  Monsieur  Jullien,  George 
Henry  Lewes,  Dr.  Russell  (the  war  correspondent),  Tom 
Macdonald  (the  "Laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet"  of  the 
Bouillabaisse],  Tom  Taylor,  Pigott  (after,  Examiner  of 
Plays),  Shirley  Brooks,  Charles  Lamb  Kenney,  Frank 
Talfourd,  Baron  Huddleston,  Sergeant  Ballantine,  John 
Leech,  Leigh  Murray, — lastly,  Albert  Smith,  who  wrote 
a  descriptive  poem  of  the  members,  the  last  verse  (xvi) 
of  which  runs: — 

"  And  then  there  came  a  mighty  man  who,  'tis  but  fair  to  state, 
Among  the  small  is  Affable,  though  Great  amongst  the  great — 
The  good  Pendennis." 


Club  OLite  147 

There  still  remain  to  be  mentioned  three  favourite 
haunts  of  Thackeray,  which,  had  I  been  observing  strict 
chronological  order,  should  have  been  mentioned  first. 
To  these  places,  the  "Coal  Hole,"  the  "Cyder  Cellars," 
and  "Evans's,"  Thackeray  first  went  soon  after  he  came 
of  age,  and  continued  his  visits  until  his  children  began 
to  grow  into  companions  for  him. 

The  "Coal  Hole,"  owned  by  John  Rhodes,  was  situ- 
ated in  a  court  off  the  Strand,  near  Fountain  Court. 
"We  became  naturally  hungry  at  twelve  o'clock  at 
night,"  Pendennis  writes  in  The  Newcomes,  "and  a 
desire  for  Welsh  rabbits  and  good  old  glee  singing  led  us 
to  the  'Cave  of  Harmony.'  ' 

"One  night  Colonel  Newcome,  with  hrs  son  Clive, 
came  here  '  to  see  the  wits. '  A  timely  warning  to  the 
landlord  from  Jones  of  Trinity  that  a  boy  was  in  the 
room,  and  a  gentleman  who  was  quite  a  greenhorn,  and 
the  songs  were  so  carefully  selected  that  'a  ladies'  school 
might  have  come  in  and,  but  for  the  smell  of  the  cigars 
and  brandy  and  water,  have  taken  no  harm  by  what 
occurred.'  The  Colonel  was  delighted,  especially  when 
Nadab  the  improvisatore,  devoted  a  verse  to  him  and  to 
his  son,  and  he  sang  a  ditty  himself,  'Wapping  Old 
Stairs.'  Unfortunately  for  the  peace  of  the  evening, 
however,  Captain  Costigan  entered,  very  drunk,  and 
insisted  upon  singing  one  of  his  most  ribald  songs. 

"  'Silence!'  Colonel  Newcome  roared  at  the  end  of 
the  second  verse  of  drunken  Captain  Costigan's  song  at 
the  'Cave  of  Harmony.'  '  "Go  on!"  '  cries  the  Colonel, 
in  his  high  voice,  trembling  with  anger.  'Does  any  gen- 
tleman say  "Go  on?"  Does  any  man  who  has  a  wife 
and  sisters,  or  children  at  home,  say  "Go  on"  to  such 
disgusting  ribaldry  as  this?  Do  you  dare,  sir,  to  call 


148         'Qdillfam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

yourself  a  gentleman,  or  to  say  you  hold  the  King's 
commission  and  to  sit  down  amongst  Christians  and  men 
of  honour,  and  defile  the  ears  of  young  boys  with  this 
wicked  balderdash?' 

"  'Why  bring  young  boys  here,  old  boy?'  cries  a 
voice  of  the  malcontents. 

"  'Why?  Because  I  thought  I  was  coming  to  a 
society  of  gentlemen,'  cried  out  the  indignant  Colonel. 
'  Because  I  never  could  have  believed  that  Englishmen 
could  meet  together  and  allow  a  man,  and  an  old  man, 
so  to  disgrace  himself.  For  shame,  you  old  wretch ! 
Go  home  to  your  bed,  you  hoary  old  sinner!  And  for 
my  part,  I'm  not  sorry  that  my  son  should  see,  for  once 
in  his  life,  to  what  shame  and  degradation  and  dishonour 
drunkenness  and  whisky  may  bring  a  man.  Never 
mind  the  change,  sir! — curse  the  change!'  says  the 
Colonel,  facing  the  amazed  waiter.  'Keep  it  till  you  see 
me  in  this  place  again,  which  will  be  never — by  George, - 
never!'  And  shouldering  his  stick,  and  scowling  round 
at  the  company  of  scared  bacchanalians,  the  indignant 
gentleman  stalked  away,  his  boy  after  him. 

"Clive  seemed  rather  shamefaced,  but  I  fear  the  rest 
of  the  company  looked  still  more  foolish.  ' Aussi,  que 
diable  venait-il  faire  dans  cette  galeref  says  King  of 
Corpus  to  Jones  of  Trinity;  and  Jones  gave  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  which  were  smarting  perhaps;  for  that 
uplifted  cane  of  the  Colonel's  had  somehow  fallen  on  the 
back  of  every  man  in  the  room."* 

*This  episode  in  The  Newcomes  has  something  in  common  with 
the  following  reminiscence  told  by  Mr.  Francis  St.  John  Thackeray 
in  Temple  Bar,  1893:  "He"  [Thackeray]  "took  me  to  the  Garrick 
Club,  where  I  remember  his  checking  some  one  in  the  act  of  blurting 
out  an  oath,  the  utterance  of  which  he  would  not  tolerate  in  my  pres- 
ence." This  illustrates  what  he  once  wrote  in  Ptmch :  "We  have  a 
love  for  all  little  boys  at  school,  for  many  thousands  of  them  read  and 


Club  Xife  149 

The  "Cyder  Cellars,"  which  is  better  known  by  name 
to  the  present  generation,  was  owned  by  William 
Rhodes,  the  brother  of  the  "Coal  Hole"  proprietor,  and 
on  his  death  it  was  successfully  managed  by  his  widow. 
It  was  situated  in  Maiden  Lane,  next  to  the  stage  door 
of  the  Adelphi  Theatre — the  site  is  now  covered  by  a 
Jewish  synagogue.  Porson,  the  Greek  Professor,  used 
to  come  here,  and  for  years  his  portrait  hung  upon  the 
wall,  and  in  Thackeray's  time  Dr.  Maginn,  and  most  of 
the  Fraser  set,  were  among  the  habitues. 

It  was  here,  too,  that,  in  the  days  of  his  youth, 
Thackeray  heard  Sloman  sing  his  improvisations,  and 
referred  to  him  in  the  verses  to  Braham  in  the  National 
Standard: — "Sloman  repeats  the  strains  his  father 
sang,"  to  which  was  appended  a  satirical  note:  "It  is 
needless  to  speak  of  this  eminent  vocalist  and  improvisa- 
tore.  He  nightly  delights  a  numerous  and  respectable 
audience  at  the  Cyder  Cellars." 

Here  also,  in  October,  1848,  he  went,  at  least  twice, 
"to  hear  the  man  sing  about  going  to  be  hanged."  The 
song  was  called  Sam  Hall,  and  the  singer  was  the  well- 
known  comedian,  Ross.  "The  chant,"  Mr.  Hollings- 
head  has  recorded,  "was  that  of  a  chimney-sweep  before 
he  was  to  be  hanged  for  murder.  He  was  a  defiant, 
blasphemous  chimney-sweep — a  coarse  Agnostic — with  a 
determination  to  father  his  crimes  on  those  who  made 
him.  .  .  .  Ross  sat  astride  upon  a  chair,  leaning 
over  the  back,  with  his  face  glaring  at  the  audience.  He 

love  Punch.    May  he  never  write  a  word  that  shall  not  be  honest  and 
fit  for  them  to  read!  " 

Indeed,  it  may  be  gathered  from  any  of  his  works  that,  while 
saying  "  Children,  respect  your  parents  and  your  elders,"  he  per- 
sistently preached  the  quite  as  important,  and  much  more  often 
forgotten,  "Parents,  respect  your  children,"  "Men,  respect  the  boys." 


150         William  flDafcepeace  Hbacfeerag 

told  his  hearers  how  he  had  robbed  both  great  and  small, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  verse  he  damned  his  own  eyes, 
until  his  very  straightforward  phrase  became  the  catch- 
word and  refrain  of  the  convivial  early  morning. ' '  This 
immensely  popular  song  was  usually  given  with  tre- 
mendous effect  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
as  many  of  the  guests  had  imbibed  more  liquor  than  was 
good  for  them,  the  songs  became  so  equivocal  in  charac- 
ter as  to  quite  justify  Thackeray's  attack  in  The  New- 
comes. 

Albert  Smith  described  the  place  in  The  Medical  Stu- 
dent, and  The  Adventures  of  Mr.  Ledbury;  and  Thack- 
eray wrote  of  it  as  the  "Back  Kitchen"  in  Pendennis,  in 
a  passage  that  is  well  worth  quoting: 

"Healthy  country  tradesmen  and  farmers  in  London 
for  their  business  came  and  recreated  themselves  with 
the  jolly  singing  and  suppers  at  the  Back  Kitchen; 
squads  of  young  apprentices  and  assistants — the  shutters 
being  closed  over  the  scene  of  their  labours — came  hither 
for  fresh  air,  doubtless;  dashing  young  medical  students, 
gallant,  dashing,  what  is  called  loudly  dressed,  and, 
must  it  be  owned?  somewhat  dirty,  came  here,  smoking 
and  drinking  and  vigourously  applauding  the  songs; 
young  University  bucks  were  to  be  found  here,  too, 
with  that  indescribable  simper  which  is  only  learned  at 
the  knees  of  Alma  Mater;  and  handsome  young  guards- 
men and  florid  bucks  from  the  St.  James's  Street  clubs; 
nay!  senators — English  and  Irish — and  even  members 
of  the  House  of  Peers." 

But  more  famous  than  either  of  the  last-mentioned 
places,  and  more  congenial  to  Thackeray,  was  Evans's 
Supper  Rooms  at  the  western  corner  of  the  Covent  Gar- 
den Piazza.  "Evans's,  late  Joy's,"  was  the  punning 


Club  Xife  151 

inscription  on  the  lamp,  though  in  Thackeray's  time  the 
proprietor  was  John  ("Paddy")  Green.  This  was  a  great 
resort  for  men  about  town,  and  among  the  frequenters 
were  Sergeant  Ballantine,  Douglas  Jerrold,  Albert  and 
Arthur  Smith,  James  Hannay,  G.  A.  Sala,  Lionel 
Lawson,  Horace  Mayhew,  and  (sometimes)  Leech. 

The  principal  entertainers  here,  in  opposition  to 
Ross's  "Sam  Hall,"  and  the  great  bass  singer  (much 
appreciated  by  Thackeray)  Hodgsen  with  his  song,  The 
Bodysnatcher,  at  the  Cyder  Cellars,  were  the  tenor, 
John  Binge;  the  basso,  S.  Jones;  "Paddy"  Green  him- 
self (he  had  been  a  chorus  singer  at  the  opera) ;  and  a 
German  who  sang  jodling  songs;  while  the  comic  ele- 
ment was  supplied  by  Sam  Cowell,  singer  and  actor,  and 
Sharpe,  who  was  a  great  success  at  Vauxhall  and  Cre- 
morne  as  well,  but  who  took  to  drink  and  was  found 
dead  from  starvation  in  a  country  lane.  The  ribald 
songs  which  were  at  first  an  element  of  the  performances 
were  soon  abandoned ;  and  in  their  place  were  choruses 
sung  by  trained  choir-boys,  whose  fresh  young  voices  in 
the  old  glees  and  madrigals  of  Purcell,  Niedermayer,  and 
Pearsall,  were  a  source  of  delight  to  Thackeray. 

"Thackeray's  liking  for  Evans" — I  again  quote  from 
Mr.  Hollingshead's  book — "was  more  cultivated  than 
mine,  and  based  upon  his  passionate  love  for  the  last 
century.  Evans's  belonged  to  the  seventeenth  nearly 
as  much  as  it  belonged  to  the  eighteenth  'century.  It 
was  the  connecting  link  between  the  old  Covent  Garden 
coffee-houses — the  Wills  and  Buttons — and  the  music 
halls  of  the  present.  As  a  mansion  it  dates  back  to 
William  the  Third's  time,  and  has  a  carved  staircase  of 
1691,  which  cannot  be  matched  in  England.  Its  most 
celebrated  resident  perhaps  was  Admiral  Lord  Orford. 


i52         William  /iDafcepeace  Ubacfceras 

In  Hogarth's  picture  of  Morning,  the  archi- 
tectural frontage,  unaltered  for  three  centuries,  appears. 
.  .  .  These  and  a  hundred  other  antiquarian  memories 
served  to  endear  the  place  to  Thackeray,  for  it  was  a 
material  link  between  the  days  of  the  old  Garrick  Club 
and  the  more  beloved  days  when  Queen  Anne  lived  and 
reigned.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER   X 

MISCELLANEOUS  AUTHORSHIP— PUNCH 


CHAPTER   X 

MISCELLANEOUS   AUTHORSHIP—  PUNCH 

SHORTLY  after  his  wife's  break-down,  Thackeray 
was  constantly  in  Paris,  where  his  children  were 
staying  with  his  grandmother;  and  it  was  during  a  visit 
there,  in  the  autumn  of  1840,  that,  from  a  room  open- 
ing upon  a  garden  in  the  Champs  £lys£es  he  witnessed 
the  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon — that  is,  the  ceremony 
of  conveying  the  remains  of  the  great  warrior  to  their 
last  resting-place  at  the  Hotel  des  Invalides.  A  descrip- 
tion of  this  in  the  form  of  three  letters  to  Miss  Smith 
of  London,  together  with  the  addition  of  a  poem  entitled 
The  Chronicle  of  a  Drum*  was  published  early  in  the 
following  year  by  Hugh  Cunningham  of  St.  Martin's 
Place, f  the  successor  of  Macrone,  who  published  The 
Paris  Sketch  Book;  but  it  met  with  very  little  success, 

*It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  this  poem  and  Mrs.  Browning's 
Crowned  and  Buried  conclude  with  the  same  sentiment: 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

"  And  somewhere  now,  in  yonder  stars, 
Can  tell,  mayhap,  what  greatness  is." 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

"  But  whether 

The  crowned  Napoleon  or  the  buried  clay 
Be  better,  I  discern  not — Angels  may." 

t "  Have  you  read  Thackeray's  little  book,  The  Second  Funeral 
of  Napoleon?"  Edward  Fitzgerald  wrote  to  W.  H.  Thompson  on 
February  18,  1841.  "If  not,  pray  do,  and  buy  it,  and  ask  others  to 
buy  it:  as  each  copy  sold  puts  7^d.  in  Thackeray's  pocket:  which  is 
not  very  heavy  just  now,  I  take  it." 

155 


156         TKflilliam  flDafeepeace 

though  it  was  brought  out  at  the  low  price  of  half-a- 
crown.  Now  ^33  los.  is  paid  for  a  copy.  There  is  an 
interesting  advertisement  at  the  end  of  the  volume, 
which  announces  that  there  is  "preparing  for  immediate 
publication  Dinner  Reminiscences,  or  the  Young  Gourman- 
dizer  s  Guide  at  Paris,  by  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsti' ;  but, 
probably  discouraged  by  the  reception  accorded  to  The 
Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,  Thackeray  abandoned  his 
intention,  and  instead  of  the  Guide  he  used  part  of  the 
collected  material  for  an  article,  The  Memorials  of  Gour- 
mandizing,  which  appeared  in  Fraserin.  June,  1841. 

This  book  ( The  Second  Funeral}  is  probably  the  book 
most  characteristic  of  its  author.  He  appreciated  Napo- 
leon, but  thought  the  whole  affair  humbug;  and  he  said 
so,  though  he  knew  he  was  running  counter  to  the  feel- 
ings of  two  nations.  For  this  the  Times  reviewer 
blamed  him,  and,  while  praising  the  book,  accused  its 
author  of  flippancy  and  conceit.  To  this  charge  Thack- 
eray replied  in  the  article,  Men  and  Pictures  (Fraser, 
July,  1849),  m  tne  half-serious,  half-bantering  manner  he 
affected  towards  adverse  criticism. 

"Oh,  you  thundering  old  Times!  Napoleon's  funeral 
was  a  humbug,  and  your  constant  reader  said  so.  The 
people  engaged  in  it  were  humbugs,  and  this  even 
Michael  Angelo  hinted  at.  There  may  be  irreverence 
in  this,  and  the  process  of  humbug-hunting  may  end 
rather  awkwardly  for  some  people.  But  surely  there  is 
no  conceit.  The  shamming  of  modesty  is  the  most  pert 
conceit  of  all,  the/r/i&tts*  affectation  of  deference  where 
you  don't  feel  it,  the  sneaking  acquiescence  in  lies.  It 
is  very  hard  that  a  man  may  not  tell  the  truth  as  he 
fancies  it,  without  being  accused  of  conceit :  but  so  the 
world  wags.  As  has  already  been  prettily  shown  in 


/Miscellaneous  Hutborsbfp— "puncb"     157 

that  before-mentioned  little  book  about  Napoleon,  that 
is  still  to  be  had  of  the  Publisher,  there  is  a  Ballad  in  the 
Volume  which,  if  properly  studied,  will  be  alone  worth 
two-and-sixpence  to  any  man. 

"Well,  the  Funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  humbug,  and 
being  so,  what  was  a  man  to  call  it?  What  do  we  call  a 
rose?  Is  it  disrespectful  to  call  it  by  its  own  innocent 
name?  And,  in  like  manner,  are  we  bound,  out  of 
respect  for  society,  to  speak  of  humbug  only  in  a  cir- 
cumlocutory way — to  call  it  something  else,  as  they  say 
some  Indian  people  do  their  devil — to  wrap  it  up  in  rid- 
dles and  charades!  Nothing  is  easier.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  following  couple  of  sonnets  on  the  subject : — 

"  The  glad  spring  sun  shone  yesterday,  as  Mr. 
M.  Titmarsh  wandered  with  his  favourite  lassie 
By  silver  Seine,  among  the  meadows  grassy — 

Meadows,  like  mail-coach  guards  new  clad  at  Easter. 
Fair  was  the  sight  'twixt  Neuilly  and  Passy; 

And  green  the  field,  and  bright  the  river's  glister. 

"The  bird  sang,  sang  salutation  to  the  spring; 

Already  buds  and  leaves  from  branches  burst: 

'The  surly  winter  time  hath  done  its  worst,' 
Said  Michael;  '  Lo,  the  bees  are  on  the  wing! ' 
Then  on  the  ground  his  lazy  limbs  did  fling. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  pass'd  by  him  with  my  first. 
My  second  dare  I  to  your  notice  bring, 

Or  name  to  delicate  ears  that  animal  accurst? 

"  To  all  our  earthly  family  of  fools 

My  whole,  resistless  despot,  gives  the  law — 
Humble  or  great,  we  kneel  to  it  the  same 

O'er  camp  and  court,  the  Senate  and  the  schools, 

Our  grand  Invisible  Lama  sits  and  rules 
By  Ministers  that  are  its  men  of  straw. 

"  Sir  Robert  utters  it — place  of  wit 

And  straight  the  Opposition  shouts  '  Hear,  hear! ' 
And  oh!  but  all  the  Whiggish  benches  cheer 
When  great  Lord  John  retorts  it,  as  is  fit. 


158         William  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeerag 

In  you,  my  Press,  each  day  throughout  the  year, 

On  vast  broad  sheets  we  find  its  praises  writ. 
Oh!  wondrous  are  the  columns  that  you  rear 
And  sweet  the  many  hymns  you  roar  in  praise  of  it! 

\ 
"(The  reader  can  easily  accommodate  the  line  to  the 

name  of  his  favourite  paper.     Thus : — 

..  T  Times        ,    ,        , 

"  In  you,  my  -^ — —each  day  throughout  the  year 

,. ,                    Herald  ,  ..      ,          ,     ,  „ 

"  In  you,  my  r=r. daily  through  the  year 

or,  in  France: — 

"In  you,  my  Galignani 's  Messagere ; — 

"a  capital  paper,  because  you  have  there  the  very  cream 
of  all  the  others.  In  the  last  line  for,  'Morning'  you 
can  read  'Evening*  or  'Weekly'  as  circumstances 
prompt.) 

"Sacred  word !  It  is  kept  out  of  the  Dictionaries, 
as  if  the  great  compilers  of  those  publications  were 
afraid  to  utter  it.  Well  then,  the  Funeral  of  Napoleon 
was  a  humbug,  as  Titmarsh  wrote,  and  a  still  better 
proof  that  it  was  a  humbug  was  this,  that  nobody 
bought  Titmarsh's  book,  and  of  the  10,000  copies  made 
ready  by  the  publisher,  not  above  3,000  went  off.  It 
was  a  humbug,  and  an  exploded  humbug.  Peace  be  to 
it.  Parlons  d'autres  chases." 

It  was  not  until  a  Quarter  of  a  century  had  elapsed 
that  the  article  was  reprinted.  Then,  in  January,  1866, 
it  was  printed  in  the  pages  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  with 
an  introductory  note  by  the  Editor: — 

"Mr.  Thackeray  once  more  appears  in  the  pages  of 
the  Cornhill  Magazine.  We  are  able  to  give  our  readers 
some  sketches  of  his,  which  have,  indeed,  been  printed 
before,  but  that  was  when  he  was  writing  for  a  genera- 


rtMscellaneous  Butborsbfp— "flMmcb"    159 

tion  so  astonishingly  dull  as  to  see  no  merit  in  Barry 
Lyndon;  while  we  in  our  days  wonder  sometimes  whether 
even  Thackeray  himself  ever  surpassed  that  little  book, 
so  wonderfully  vigourous  and  keen.  But  he  wrote  many 
things  then  that  were  neglected  and  were  soon  alto- 
gether forgotten.  One  of  them  was  The  Second  Funeral 
of  Napoleon,  of  which  probably  not  one  in  ten  thousand 
of  the  readers  of  this  Magazine  ever  heard.  And  yet  it 
was  published  in  due  form  and  in  decent  duodecimo,  by 
Mr.  Hugh  Cunningham,  a  bookseller  whose  shop  was  at 
the  corner  of  St.  Martin's  Place:  he  who  also  first  pub- 
lished The  Paris  Sketch  Book.  It  was  illustrated  by 
some  woodcuts  of  no  great  merit,  and  thereto  was  added 
the  famous  Chronicle  of  the  Drum — which  the  'leading 
Magazines'  had  all  refused  to  print.  And  as  the  able 
editors  of  the  time  rejected  the  ballad,  so  the  intelligent 
public  of  the  time  refused  to  read  the  account  of  The 
Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,  though  it  had  all  the  allure- 
ment of  being  written  at  the  time,  and  in  the  presence 
of  the  event  it  commemorates.  The  gentleman  who 
sends  us  the  original  MS.,  from  which  we  reprint  the 
long-forgotten  narrative,  says: — 

"The  Letters  on  the  Second  Funeral  were  a  failure.  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  editing  the  tiny  volume  for  Mr. 
Thackeray,  and  ran  it  through  the  press.  And  after  a 
while,  on  the  dismal  tidings  from  the  publisher  that  the 
little  effort  made  no  impression  on  the  public,  Mr. 
Thackeray  wrote  to  me  from  Paris  a  pretty  little  note 
commencing:  'So  your  poor  Titmarsh  has  made  another 
fiasco.  How  are  we  to  take  the  great  stupid  public  by 
the  ears?  Never  mind;  I  think  I  have  something  which 
will  surprise  them  yet.  .  .  .'  This  was  evidently  an 
allusion  to  Vanity  Fair,  which  he  had  begun  at  that  time." 


160         TKHilliam  /Ibafeepeace  Ubacfeerag 

In  1841  Thackeray  also  published,  through  Hugh 
Cunningham,  of  St.  Martin's  Place,  two  volumes  of 
reprints  under  the  title  of  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches. 
Edited  and  illustrated  by  Mr.  Michael  Angela  Titmarsh, 
with  a  preface  dated  " Paris,  April  I,  1841,"  the  greater 
part  of  which  is  well  worth  inserting  here : — 

"A  custom  which  the  publishers  have  adopted  of  late 
cannot  be  too  strongly  praised,  both  by  authors  of  high 
repute,  and  by  writers  of  no  repute  at  all, — viz.,  the 
custom  of  causing  the  writings  of  unknown  literary  char- 
acters to  be  edited  by  some  person  who  is  already  a 
favourite  of  the  public.  The  labour  is  not  so  difficult  as 
at  first  may  be  supposed.  A  publisher  writes — 'My  dear 
Sir, — Enclosed  is  a  draft  on  Messrs.  So-and-So;  will 
you  edit  Mr.  What-d'ye-call-em's  book?'  The  well- 
known  author  writes — 'My  dear  Sir, — I  have  to  acknowl- 
edge the  receipt  of  so  much,  and  will  edit  the  book  with 
pleasure.'  And  the  book  is  published;  and  from  that 
day  until  the  end  of  the  world,  the  well-known  author 
never  hears  of  it  again,  except  he  has  a  mind  to  read  it, 
when  he  orders  it  from  the  circulating  library. 

"This  little  editorial  fiction  is  one  which  can  do  harm 
to  nobody  in  the  world,  and  only  good  to  the  young 
author  so  introduced ;  for  who  would  notice  him  in  such 
a  great,  crowded,  bustling  world  unless  he  came  forward 
by  a  decent  letter  of  recommendation?  .... 

"When  there  came  to  be  a  question  of  republishing 
the  tales  in  these  volumes,  the  three  authors,  Major 
Gahagan,  Mr.  Fitzroy  Yellowplush,  and  myself,  had  a 
violent  dispute  upon  the  matter  of  editing;  and  atone 
time  we  talked  of  editing  each  other  all  round.  The 
toss  of  a  half-penny,  however,  decided  the  question  in 
my  favour;  and  I  shall  be  very  glad,  in  a  similar  manner, 


/HMscellaneous  Hutborsbip— "puncb"    161 

to  'edit'  any  works,  of  any  author,  on  any  subject,  or 
in  any  language  whatever. 

"Mr.  Yellowplush's  Memoirs  appeared  in  Eraser's 
Magazine,  and  have  been  reprinted  accurately  from  that 
publication.  The  elegance  of  their  style  made  them 
excessively  popular  in  America,  where  they  were 
reprinted  more  than  once.  Major  Gahagan's  Reminis- 
cences from  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  were  received  by 
our  American  brethren  with  similar  piratical  honours; 
and  the  Editor  has  had  the  pleasure  of  perusing  them 
likewise;  but  Doctor  Strumpff,  the  celebrated  Sanskrit 
Professor  in  the  University  of  Bonn,  has  already  deci- 
phered the  first  ten  pages,  has  compiled  a  copious  vocabu- 
lary and  notes,  has  separated  the  mythic  from  the 
historical  part  of  the  volume,  and  discovered  it  is  like 
Homer,  the  work  of  many  ages  and  persons.  He  declares 
the  work  to  be  written  in  the  Cocknaic  dialect;  but,  for 
this  and  other  conjectures,  the  reader  is  referred  to  his 
essay. 

' '  The  Bedford-Row  Conspiracy  also  appeared  in  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine ;  and  the  reader  of  French  novels  will 
find  that  one  of  the  tales  of  the  ingenious  M.  Charles  de 
Barnard  is  very  similar  to  it  in  plot.  As  M.  de  Barnard's 
tale  appeared  before  the  Conspiracy,  it  is  very  probable 
that  envious  people  will  be  disposed  to  say  that  the  Eng- 
lish author  borrowed  from  the  French  one;  a  matter 
which  the  public  is  quite  at  liberty  to  settle  as  it 
chooses. 

"The  history  of  TJte  Fatal  Boots  formed  part  of  The 
Comic  Almanack  three  years  since,  and  if  the  author  has 
not  ventured  to  make  designs  for  it,  as  for  the  other 
tales  in  the  volume,  the  reason  is,  that  the  Boots  have 
been  already  illustrated  by  Mr.  George  Cruikshank,  a 


162         UClillfam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfceras 

gentleman  upon  whom  Mr.  Titmarsh  does  not  wish  to 
provoke  criticism. 

"On  the  title-page  the  reader  is  presented  with  three 
accurate  portraits  of  the  author  of  these  volumes.  They 
are  supposed  to  be  marching  hand-in-hand,  and  are  just 
on  the  very  brink  of  Immortality." 

The  fact  that  The  Professor,  a  Tale,  which  was  included 
in  this  book,  is  not  mentioned  in  the  preface,  has  led 
more  than  one  writer  into  the  error  of  stating  that  it  was 
then  published  for  the  first  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it 
is  the  story  of  the  same  name  contributed  to  Bentley's 
Miscellany,  then  under  the  editorship  of  Boz,  and  at  the 
time  when  Oliver  Twist  was  appearing  in  its  pages. 

From  Kenny  Meadows,  who  at  this  time  was  publish- 
ing a  series  of  Heads  of  the  People — Douglas  Jerrold  and 
Marryat  were  among  the  contributors  —  Thackeray 
accepted  a  commission  to  write  three  sketches :  Captain 
Rook  and  Mr.  Pigeon,  and  The  Fashionable  Authoress  (by 
William  Thackeray),  and  The  Artist  (by  Michael  Angela 
TitmarsJi).  He  also  wrote  for  Fraser  the  already  men- 
tioned Memorials  of  Gourmandizing  (June),  the  title  of 
which  explains  itself — in  this  article  first  appeared  one 
of  his  imitations  of  Horace,  To  his  Serving  Boy;  On  Men 
and  Pictures,  in  which,  as  I  have  said,  he  defended  his 
Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon;  and  Men  and  Coats 
(August),  an  amusing  paper  on  clothes;  while  to  Cruik- 
shank's  Omnibus  he  contributed  Little  Spitz,  A  Lenten 
Anecdote  from  the  German  Professor  of  Spass  (October), 
and  the  humourous  King  of  Brentford 's  Testament 
(December). 

But  1841  is  especially  memorable  for  the  production 
of  the  best  of  his  earlier  writings.  "The  best  thing  I 
ever  wrote, ' '  he  himself  said  six  years  later,  on  the  eve 


flMscellaneous  Hutfoorsbfp— "puncb"    163 

of  the  publication  of  Vanity  Fair,  which,  after  being 
rejected  by  Blackwood,  came  out  from  September  to 
December  in  Fraser — The  History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh 
and  the  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,  edited  and  illustrated 
by  Sam  s  Cousin,  Michael  Angela. 

The  excellencies  of  this  story  were  quite  overlooked 
by  the  general  reading  public,  who,  no  doubt,  found  it 
clever  and  amusing,  but  had  not  sufficient  discernment 
to  see  how  good  it  was,  or  to  note  in  it  the  promise  of 
the  future  greatness  of  its  author.  There  were,  how- 
ever, a  few  critics  who  were  less  blind  than  the  public, 
and  amongst  these  was  John  Stirling,  who  wrote  to  his 
mother:  "I  have  seen  no  new  books,  but  am  reading 
your  last.  I  got  hold  of  the  two  first  numbers  of  The 
Hoggarty  Diamond,  and  read  them  with  extreme  delight. 
What  is  there  better  in  Fielding  or  Goldsmith?  The 
man  is  a  true  genius,  and  with  quiet  comfort  might  pro- 
duce masterpieces  which  would  last  as  long  as  any  we 
have,  and  delight  millions  of  unborn  readers.  There  is 
more  truth  in  nature  in  one  of  those  papers,  than  in  all 
Dickens'  novels  put  together."  All  of  which  letter 
says  a  great  deal  for  the  critical  faculty  of  the  writer,  but 
unfortunately  was  of  little  avail  in  raising  Thackeray's 
literary  status. 

This  year,  too,  saw  the  commencement  of  Thackeray's 
long  connection  with  Punch. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  record  the  origin  of  this 
famous  paper,  but  it  is  worth  while  noting  that  it  was 
seriously  intended  by  Thackeray  and  others  to  start  a 
journal  on  very  much  the  same  lines  about  a  year  earlier. 
Mr.  Henry  Vizetelly  is  the  historian  of  this  unfulfilled 
intention.  "A  scheme  was  proposed,"  he  wrote,  "to 


164         TJUUllfam  /IDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

produce  a  satirical  journal  on  the  lines  of  Phillipon's 
Paris  Charivari,  excepting  that  the  proposed  new  venture 
was  to  be  a  weekly  instead  of  a  daily  publication."  As 
no  capitalist  could  be  found  willing  to  risk  his  money 
' '  it  was  determined  to  start  the  London  Charivari  on  the 
co-operative  principle.  .  .  .  After  considerable 
negotiation  the  following  list  of  proprietors 
was  decided  upon:  Authors:  Jerrold,  Thackeray, 
Laman  Blanchard,  and  Percival  Leigh;  .  .  .  Art- 
ists: Kenny  Meadows,  Leech,  and  .  .  .  Alfred 
Crowquill;  Engraver:  Orrin  Smith;  Printers:  Jobbin, 
lithographic — J.  Vizetelly,  letter-press;  publisher,  R. 
Tyas.  Specimen  pages  of  the  text  were  put  into  type, 
when,  by  some  means  or  other,  Thackeray  got 
hold  of  the  idea  that  each  co-partner  in  the  proposed 
publication  would  not  only  be  liable  for  its  debts,  but 
also  for  the  private  debts  of  his  co-partners;  and  as 
none  of  the  latter  possessed  sufficient  legal  knowledge 
to  point  out  the  fallacy  of  this  assumption,  and  some 
were  suspicious  of  the  soundness  of  their  proposed  col- 
leagues, the  continuation  of  the  London  Charivari  was 
forthwith  abandoned,  and  on  the  i/th  July,  1841,  the 
first  number  of  Punch  appeared." 

Soon  after,  to  quote  Shirley  Brooks,  "on  a  good  day 
for  himself,  the  journal,  and  the  world,  Thackeray  found 
Punch."  When  Edward  Fitzgerald  heard  of  this,  he 
wrote  on  May  22nd  to  a  friend,  "Tell  Thackeray  not  to 
go  into  Punch  yet. ' '  Thackeray  disregarded  this  advice — 
fortunately  as  it  happened — but  there  is  no  doubt  the 
monitor  was  right,  for  the  paper,  originally  owned  by 
three  people,  had  been  so  ridiculously  under-capitalized, 
that  they  were  compelled  to  sell  the  journal  to  its  pres- 
ent proprietors  in  order  to  meet  their  liabilities.  Messrs. 


/UMscellaneous  Butborsbip— "puncb"     165 

Bradbury  &  Evans,  however,  by  their  capital  and  business 
experience,  soon  put  the  paper  on  a  more  reputable 
footing. 

Within  a  few  weeks  of  Fitzgerald's  warning,  in  the 
same  number  that  introduced  John  Oxenford's  work  to 
the  Punch  reader,  Thackeray's  first  contribution  ap- 
peared—  The  Legend  of  Jawbrahim-Heraudee.  Miss 
Tickletoby  s  Lectures  on  English  History — which  are  usu- 
ally considered  his  earliest  work  for  this  paper,  did  not 
appear  until  a  fortnight  later,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
second  volume  for  1842.  These  Lectures,  no  doubt, 
suggested  to  Beckett  and  Leech  the  idea  of  The  Comic 
History  of  England,  and  The  Comic  History  of  Rome,  but 
they  were  not  considered  a  success,  and,  indeed,  were 
discontinued  after  the  eleventh  week. 

"I  am  sorry  to  learn  that  you  were  dissatisfied  with 
my  contribution  to  Punch, ' '  Thackeray  wrote  from  Hal- 
vertown  on  September  27  to  the  proprietors.  "I  wish 
my  writing  had  the  good  fortune  to  please  every  one. 
I  shall  pass  the  winter  either  in  Paris  or  in 
London  where,  very  probably,  I  may  find  some  other 
matter  more  suitable  to  the  paper,  in  which  case  I  shall 
make  another  attempt  upon  Punch."* 

He  soon  caught  the  tone  of  the  paper,  and  was  able 
to  suit  his  writings  to  its  requirements.  For  ten  years 
he  poured  all  his  best  work  into  it.  He  had  a  free  hand 
and  was  able  to  employ  all  his  talents — he  contributed, 
with  a  fine  indifference,  duologues,  sketches,  love-let- 
ters, thumb-nail  drawings,  criticisms,  political  skits, 
social  satires,  poems,  parodies,  caricatures — even  illustra- 

*77ie  History  of  Pimch.  It  is  singular  to  notice  now  inaccurate 
the  painstaking  and  laborious  Trollope  can  be,  when  he  takes  to  bio- 
graphical work.  He  states  that  Thackeray  began  to  write  on  Punch 
in  1843  and  ceased  writing  in  1852;  both  of  which  dates  are  wrong. 


166         TKHilliam  flDafeepeace 

tions  to  other  writers'  works.  The  paper  would  accept 
anything,  if  only  it  were  amusing,  and  soon  he  became 
the  principal  literary  supporter  of  the  worthy  Mr. 
Punch.  To  Number  137  (Christmas,  1843),  which  is 
still  famous  as  having  contained  The  Song  of  the  Shirt, 
he  contributed  a  Singular  Letter  from  the  Regent  of 
Spain,  and  three  cuts  illustrating  sailors  who  had  found 
a  bottle  in  the  sea:  "Sherry  perhaps"  —  "Rum,  I 
hope" — "Tracts,  by  Jove/"  With  this  number  he  took 
his  place  at  the  Dinner,  as  a  substitute  for  Albert  Smith.* 

Before  this,  he  had  contributed  Mr.  Spec's  Remon- 
strance,^ a  Turkish  Letter  concerning  the  Divertisement 
"Les  Houris,"  a  Second  Turkish  Letter,  and  with  Jerrold 
had  created  Jenkins  to  typify  the  Morning  Post. 

His  other  papers,  under  the  pseudonyms  of  7V/- 
marsh,  Policeman  X.,  Our  Eastern  Contributor,  Our  Fat 
Contributor,  Solomon  Pacifico,  Fitzroy  Clarence,  Punch" s 

*The  plan  (which  I  copy  from  the  History  of  Punch}  of  the  Punch 
dinner-table  in  1855  was 

William  Bradbury, 

Douglas  Jerrold,  John  Leech, 

Tom  Taylor,  W.  M.  Thackeray, 

Gilbert  A.  Beckett,  Shirley  Brooks, 

Horace  Mayhew,  Mark  Lemon, 

Percival  Leigh,  John  Tenniel, 

F.  M.  Evans. 
And  in  1860: — 

William  Bradbury, 

W.  M.  Thackeray  John  Leech, 

(when  he  comes), 

Tom  Taylor,  Henry  Silver, 

Horace  Mayhew,  Charles  Keene, 

Shirley  Brooks,  John  Tenniel, 

Percival  Leigh,  Mark  Lemon, 

F.  M.  Evans. 

fThe  pseudonym  "Spec"  seems  to  have  been  used  about  two 
years  before,  when  Cunningham  published  Sketches  by  Spec.  No.  i, 
Britannia  Protecting  the  Drama.  Only  this  No.  i  was  published, 
and  of  this  the  only  known  copy  is  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  C.  P. 
Johnson,  who  had  it  reproduced  in  facsimile  by  the  Autotype  Com- 
pany in  1885. 


"  SHERRY,    PERHAPS." 


"  RUM,    I   HOPE. 


/HMscellaneous  Hutborsbtp— "ipund>"    167 

Commissioner,  Jeames,  Paul  Pindar,  etc.,  will  be  men- 
tioned later. 

The  account  of  Punch  has  made  me  anticipate  a  little, 
and  it  is  now  necessary  to  go  back  to  1842. 

In  that  year  Thackeray's  published  writings  were: — 
Sultan  Stork,  being  the  One  Thousand  and  Second  Night. 
By  Major  G.  O'G.  Gahagan,  H.E.I.C.S.  (Ainsworth, 
February,  May),  a  continuation  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
in  the  warrior's  best  style;  Dickens  in  France  (Fraser, 
March),  a  most  amusing  account  of  Nicholas  Nickleby, 
ou  Les  Voleurs  de  Londres,  then  being  performed  at  the 
Ambigu-Comique  Theater  on  the  Boulevard;  An  Exhi- 
bition Gossip  (Ainsworth,  June),  a  letter  to  Monsieur 
Guillaume,  peintre,  criticising  contemporary  English 
artists;  Fitz-Boodle' s  Confessions  (Fraser,  June);  Profes- 
sions, by  George  Fitz-Boodle,  being  appeals  to  the  Unem- 
ployed Younger  Sons  of  the  Nobility  (Fraser,  June) — only 
the  first  two  of  the  three  professions  suggested  here  have 
been  republished  ;  and  Miss  Lowe  (Fraser,  October). 

In  June,  1842,  Thackeray  visited  Ireland,  where  he 
made  a  sort  of  grand  tour,  seeing  everything  and  every- 
body and  going  everywhere  —  to  Dublin,  Waterford, 
Cork,  Killarney,  Galway,  Connemara,  Wicklow,  Belfast, 
The  Giants'  Causeway,  and  many  other  places.  Perhaps 
the  most  interesting  event  of  the  trip  was  the  visit  paid 
to  Charles  Lever,  who  was  then  living  at  Templerogue, 
which  lies  four  miles  southwest  of  Ireland. 

The  two  novelists  had  many  conversations,  and  per- 
haps the  principal  result  of  this  intercourse  was  that 
Lever's  works,  which  had  been  essentially  Irish  before 
this  time,  became  more  cosmopolitan  in  character. 
Thackeray  endeavoured  to  persuade  him  to  quit  Dub- 
lin, where  he  was  surrounded  by  third-rate  writers,  and 


168         TKHilliam  flDafeepeace  ITbacfeeras 

to  come  to  London,  where  he  would  be  able  to  make 
much  more  money  without  any  more  trouble.  So  much 
advantage,  indeed,  did  Thackeray  think  his  fellow- 
novelist  would  derive  from  his  change  of  residence,  that 
he  backed  his  advice  by  offers  of  pecuniary  and  other 
assistance,  if  such  were  needed.  Lever,  however,  for 
various  reasons,  declined  this  proposal,  and  afterwards 
told  a  friend  that  Thackeray  was  the  most  good-natured 
man  in  the  world,  "but  that  help  from  him  would  be 
worse  than  no  help  at  all.  ...  He  (Thackeray)  was 
like  a  man  struggling  to  keep  his  head  above  water,  and 
who  offers  to  teach  his  friend  to  swim."  Lever  also 
added  that  Thackeray  "would  write  for  anything  and 
about  anything,  and  had  so  lost  himself  that  his  status 
in  London  was  not  good."* 

The  result  of  this  visit  to  the  sister  isle  was  the  Irish 
Sketch  Book,\  published  in  two  volumes  by  Messrs. 
Chapman  &  Hall — the  first  book  of  Thackeray's  brought 
out  by  this  firm.  The  Sketch-Book  was  signed,  like 
most  of  his  work  at  this  time,  with  the  familiar  Michael 
Angela  Titmarsh;  but  in  the  dedication  (dated  London, 
April  27,  1843)  to  Charles  Lever,  his  real  name  first 
appeared — "laying  aside  for  the  moment  the  travelling 
title  of  Mr.  Titmarsh,  let  me  .  .  .  subscribe  my- 
self, my  dear  Lever,  most  sincerely  and  gratefully  yours, 
W.  M.  Thackeray." 

Lever  was  much  blamed  by  some  of  his  countrymen 
for  accepting  the  dedication  of  a  book  that  they  declared 

*  "  Thackeray  had  a  sincere  regard  for  Charles,  and  would  say  any- 
thing to  him." — MAJOR  D. 

|This  work  was  to  have  come  out  under  the  Titmarshian  title  of 
The  Cockney  in  Ireland,  but  the  publishers,  preferring  the  delightful 
ambiguity  of  "  Sketch-Book,"  so  ticketed  the  book. — VIZETELLY, 
Glances  Back  Through  Seventy  Years. 


"  TRACTS,  BY  JOVE! 


/HMsceltaneous  Hutborsblp— "fiMmcb"    169 

to  be  full  of  blunders  and  exaggerations — though 
Edward  Fitzgerald  wrote  from  Dublin:  "It  is  all  true. 
I  ordered  a  bath  here,  and  when  I  got  in  the  waiter  said 
it  was  heated  to  90  degrees,  but  it  was  scalding ;  he  next 
locked  me  up  in  the  room,  instead  of  my  locking  him 
out." 

Lever,  however,  reviewed  the  book  himself  in  the 
Dublin  University  Magazine,  which  he  was  then  editing ; 
and  it  is  certain  that  Thackeray  did  not  mean  to  annoy 
the  Irish,  for  in  after  years  he  paid  the  whole  nation  a 
great  compliment — a  very  unusual  thing  for  him  to  do — 
in  the  English  Humourists,  when  he  declared:  "No,  the 
Dean  was  no  Irishman — no  Irishman  ever  gave  but  with 
a  kind  word  and  a  kind  heart." 

Mr.  Henry  Vizetelly,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Andrew 
Spottiswoode,  had  just  set  up  the  Pictorial  Times  in 
opposition  to  Ingram' s  Illustrated  London  News  (with 
which  until  recently  he  had  himself  been  associated),  and 
he  was  gathering  for  his  staff  as  many  promising  young 
men  as  he  could  find. 

"I  next  saw  Mr.  Thackeray,"  he  has  related  in  his 
autobiography.  "On  calling  at  the  address  given  me — a 
shop  in  Jermyn  Street,  eight  or  ten  doors  from  Regent 
Street,  and  within  a  few  doors  of  the  present  Museum  of 
Geology — and  knocking  at  the  private  entrance,  a  young 
lodging  house  slavey,  in  answer  to  my  enquiries,  bade 
me  follow  her  upstairs.  I  did  so,  to  the  very  top  of  the 
house,  and  after  my  card  had  been  handed  in  I  was 
asked  to  enter  the  front  apartment,  where  a  tall,  slim 
individual  between  thirty  and  thirty-five  years  of  age, 
with  a  pleasant,  smiling  countenance,  and  a  bridgeless 
nose,  and  clad  in  dressing-gown  of  decided  Parisian  cut, 
rose  from  a  small  table  standing  close  to  the  near  window 


170         TJdilliam  /IDafcepeace 

to  receive  me.  When  he  stood  up  the  low  pitch  of  the 
room  caused  him  to  look  even  taller  than  he  really  was, 
and  his  actual  height  was  well  over  six  feet. 
The  apartment  was  an  exceedingly  plainly  furnished 
bedroom,  with  common  rush-seated  chairs,  and  painted 
French  bedstead,  and  with  neither  looking-glass  nor 
prints  on  the  bare,  cold,  cheerless-looking  walls.  On  the 
table  from  which  Mr.  Thackeray  had  risen  a  white  cloth 
was  spread,  on  which  was  a  frugal  breakfast  tray — a  cup 
of  chocolate  and  some  dry  toast ;  and  huddled  together 
at  the  other  end  were  writing  materials,  two  or  three 
numbers  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  and  a  few  slips  of  manu- 
script. I  presented  Mr.  Nickisson's  letter,  and  explained 
the  object  of  my  visit,  when  Mr.  Thackeray  at  once 
undertook  to  write  upon  art,  to  review  such  books  as  he 
might  fancy,  and  to  contribute  an  occasional  article  on 
the  Opera,  more  with  reference  to  its  frequenters  than 
from  a  critical  point  of  view.  So  satisfied  was  he  with 
the  three  guineas  offered  him  for  a  couple  of  columns 
weekly,  that  he  jocularly  expressed  himself  willing  to 
sign  an  agreement  for  life  upon  these  terms.  I  can  only 
suppose,  from  the  eager  way  in  which  he  closed  with  my 
proposal,  that  the  prospects  of  an  additional  hundred 
and  sixty  pounds  to  his  income  was,  at  that  moment, 
anything  but  a  matter  of  indifference.  The  humble 
quarters  in  which  he  was  installed  seemed  at  any  rate  to 
indicate  that,  from  some  reason  or  other,  strict  economy 
was  just  then  the  order  of  the  day  with  him." 

Thackeray's  interview  with  Vizetelly  led  to  the  Letters 
on  The  Fine  Arts,  which  appeared  in  the  Pictorial  Times 
during  March  and  April.  They  were  six  in  number,  and 
included  a  letter  on  Art  Unions,  notices  of  the  Academy 


rtMscellaneous  Hutborsbfp— "puncb"    171 

and  Water  Colour  Exhibitions,  and  reviews  of  Macau- 
lay's  newly  collected  essays,  and  Disraeli's  Coningsby — 
the  last  in  particular  an  exquisite  performance.  Then 
Thackeray  went  Eastward  Ho !  and  the  letters  ceased. 
Before  leaving  the  Pictorial  Times,  it  may  be  mentioned 
that,  by  some  error,  Thackeray  had  not  been  paid  for 
the  Coningsby  review,  and  on  his  return  to  England,  he 
wrote  to  Vizetelly  the  following  amusing  note :  "Why 
doesn't  the  P.  T.  pay  up?  Rate  Keys"  [the  publisher] 
"for  not  sending  on  my  cheque.  I  had  more  than  half 
a  mind  to  post  the  holder  of  Queen  Victoria's  patent" 
[Spottiswoode,  the  Crown  printer]  "as  a  defaulter  at  the 
top  of  Cheops'  pyramid  for  the  information  of  future 
gadders-about.  The  vigilant  old  centuries,  which  look 
down  so  inquisitively,  would  have  blinked  their  weary 
eyes  at  the  exposure." 

During  1843  the  continuation  of  the  Fitz-Boodle 
Papers — Dorothea  (January);  Ottilia,  in  which  are  the 
two  Willow  Tree  poems  (February) ;  and  the  Men' 's  Wives 
series :  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Berry  (March),  The  Ravens- 
wing  (April,  May),  Denis  Haggarty 's  Wife  (October), 
The 's  Wife*  (November),  were  his  principal  contri- 
butions "to  Fraser.  But  in  addition  Mr.  Titmarsh  printed 
Jerome  Paturot,  with  considerations  on  Novels  in  General 
(September)  and  Bluebeard's  Ghost  (October)  while  Mr. 
Fitz-Boodle  sent  a  review  of  Grant's  Paris  and  its  people 
for  the  December  number. 

The  following  is  a  letter  first  printed  in  the  Book- 
worm (May,  1890)  from  Thackeray  to  the  then  propri- 
etor of  Fraser' s  Magazine. 

The  letter  explains  itself. 

*This  has  not  been  reprinted. 


172         TKflllUam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeerap 

"13,  GREAT  CORAM  STREET,  April  8,  1843. 

"MY  DEAR  NlCKISSON, — I  was  at  no  loss,  in  reading 
the  amusing  Illustrations  of  Discount  in  the  Magazine, 
to  discover  the  name  of  the  Author.  Mr.  Deady  Keane 
shook  me  by  the  hand  only  a  fortnight  since,  and  at  the 
very  same  time  no  doubt  was  writing  the  libel  on  me 
which  appeared,  to  my  no  small  surprise,  in  that  very 
Article. 

"I  have  advisedly  let  a  week  pass  without  deciding 
upon  the  course  I  ought  to  pursue.  Few  people  (none 
that  I  have  seen)  know  that  the  attack  in  question  is  lev- 
elled at  myself,  nor  indeed  have  I  any  desire  to  make  the 
public  acquainted  with  that  fact.  But,  as  in  a  private 
house  or  an  Inn,  if  any  person  with  no  other  provoca- 
tion but  that  of  drunkenness  or  natural  malice  should 
take  a  fancy  to  call  me  by  foul  names,  I  should  have  a 
right  to  appeal  to  the  host  and  request  him  to  have  the 
individual  so  offending  put  out  of  doors — I  may  similarly 
complain  to  you  that  I  have  been  grossly  insulted  in 
your  Magazine. 

"Having  written  long  in  it;  being  known  to  you 
(please  God)  as  an  honest  man  and  not  an  ungenerous 
one;  I  have  a  right  to  complain  that  a  shameful  and  an 
unprovoked  attack  has  been  made  upon  me  in  the  Maga- 
zine and  as  an  act  of  justice  to  demand  that  the  writer 
should  no  longer  be  permitted  to  contribute  to  Fraser. 

"If  Mr.  Deady  Keane  continues  his  contributions  in 
any  form,  mine  must  cease.  I  am  one  of  the  oldest  and 
I  believe  one  of  the  best  of  your  contributors.  A 
private  individual,- 1  have  been  grossly  abused  in  the 
Magazine,  and  must  perforce  withdraw  from  it  unless  I 
have  your  word  that  this  act  of  justice  shall  be  done  me. 

"I  make  this  demand   not  in  the  least  as  an  act  of 


/Miscellaneous  Hutborsbtp— "puncb"     173 

retaliation  against  Mr.  Keane,  but  as  an  act  of  justice  I 
owe  to  myself  and  which  is  forced  upon  me.  At  the 
present  at  least  it  cannot  be  said  that  my  anger  is  very 
revengeful  or  that  his  attack  has  rendered  me  particularly 
vindictive.  It  would  be  easy  to  fight  him  with  the  same 
weapons  which  he  uses  did  I  descend  to  employ  them ; 
but  I  feel  myself,  and  I  hope  one  day  he  will  discover, 
that  they  are  unworthy  of  an  honest  man.  If  he  only 
take  care  to  let  it  be  publicly  known  that  it  is  his  inten- 
tion to  abuse  in  the  public  Prints  any  private  individuals 
whose  personal  appearance  or  qualities  may  be  disagree- 
able to  him,  it  is  surprising  how  popular  he  will  become, 
how  his  society  will  be  courted,  and  his  interests  in  life 
advanced. 

"But  I  am  sure  you  will  no  longer  allow  him  to 
exercise  his  office  of  Satirist  in  your  Magazine,  and  hope 
(without  the  least  wish  to  imply  a  threat)  that  for  both 
our  sakes  he  will  make  no  more  attacks  in  print  upon  my 
person  or  my  private  character. 

"Faithfully  yours,  dear  Nickisson, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

"I  have  no  copy  of  this  letter,  but  if  you  send  it  to 
Mr.  Keane  will  you  please  make  one?" 

In  the  early  summer  of  1844  Messrs.  Chapman  & 
Hall  announced  a  Monthly  Series,  which  was  to  be  a 
collection  of  original  works  of  biography  and  fiction,  to 
be  published  in  8vo  volumes  of  350  to  420  pages. 
"The  first  biography,"  so  ran  the  advertisement,  "will 
be  a  Life  of  Talleyrande  by  W.  M.  Thackeray" — which 
would  have  been  the  first  work  published  in  his  own 
name.  He  had  written  from  the  Reform  Club  to  the 
firm  on  July  16: — 


174         TKHilliam  flDafeepeace  Ubackerap 

"MY  DEAR  SIRS, — I  will  engage  to  write  the  volume, 
the  Life  of  Talleyrande,  and  to  have  the  MSS.  in  your 
hands  by  December  i,  health  permitting,  and  will  sign 
an  agreement  to  that  effect,  if  you  will  have  the  good- 
ness to  prepare  one. 

"Faithfully  yours,  dear  Sirs, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

However,  the  agreement  was  never  signed,  and  the 
reason  of  this  appeared  in  the  preface  to  the  Notes  of  a 
Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo,  (published  in 
1846)  part  of  which  I  quote  here: — 

"On  August  20,  1844,  the  writer  of  this  little  book 

went  to  dine  at  the' Club,'  quite  unconscious  of 

the  wonderful  event  which  fate  had  in  store  for  him. 
Mr.  William  was  there,  giving  a  farewell  dinner  to  his 
friend  Mr.  James  (now  Sir  James).  These  two  asked 
Mr.  Titmarsh  to  join  company  with  them,  and  the  con- 
versation naturally  fell  upon  the  tour  Mr.  James  was 
about  to  take.  The  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company 
had  arranged  an  excursion  in  the  Mediterranean,  by 
which  in  the  space  of  a  couple  of  months  as  many  men 
and  cities  were  to  be  seen  as  Ulysses  surveyed  and  noted 
in  ten  years.  Malta,  Athens,  Smyrna,  Constantinople, 
Jerusalem,  Cairo,  were  to  be  visited,  and  everybody  was 
to  be  back  in  London  by  Lord  Mayor's  Day.  The  idea 
of  beholding  these  famous  places  inflamed  Mr.  Tit- 
marsh's  mind,  and  the  charms  of  such  a  voyage  were 
eloquently  impressed  upon  him  by  Mr.  James.  'Come,' 
said  that  kind  and  hospitable  gentleman,  'and  make  one 
of  my  family  party ;  in  all  your  life  you  will  never  prob- 
ably have  a  chance  again  to  see  so  much  in  so  short  a 
time.  Consider — it's  as  easy  as  a  journey  to  Paris  or  to 


/Miscellaneous  Hutborsbfp— "jpuncb"    175 

Baden.'  Mr.  Titmarsh  considered  all  these  things,  but 
also  the  difficulty  of  the  situation ;  he  had  but  thirty-six 
hours  to  get  ready  for  so  portentous  a  journey — he  had 
engagements  at  home — finally,  could  he  afford  it?  In 
spite  of  these  objections,  however,  with  every  glass  of 
claret  the  enthusiasm  somehow  rose,  and  the  difficulties 
vanished.  But  when  Mr.  James,  to  crown  all,  said  he 
had  no  doubt  that  his  friends  the  Directors  of  the  Penin- 
sular and  Oriental  Company  would  make  Mr.  Titmarsh 
the  present  of  a  berth  for  the  voyage,*  all  objection 
ceased  on  his  part;  to  break  his  outstanding  engage- 
ments— to  write  letters  to  his  amazed  family,  stating 
they  were  not  to  expect  him  to  dinner  on  Saturday  fort- 
night, as  he  would  be  at  Jerusalem  on  that  day — to  pur- 
chase eighteen  shirts  and  lay  in  a  sea  stock  of  Russia 
ducks — was  the  work  of  twenty-four  hours.  And  on 
August  22  the  Lady  Mary  Wood  was  sailing  from  South- 
ampton with  the  subject  of  the  present  memoir  quite 
astonished  to  find  himself  one  of  the  passengers  on 
board. ' ' 

So  Thackeray  went  to  the  East,  and  the  Life  of 
Talleyrand  is  only  to  be  mentioned  as  among  his  unwrit- 
ten works. 

*When  the  Notes  was  published,  Carlyle  was  very  angry  that 
Thackeray  had  accepted  a  free  passage  for  this  trip  from  the  P.  and 
O.  directors.  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  says  that  he  compared  the 
transaction  to  the  practice  of  a  blind  fiddler  going  to  and  fro  on  a 
penny  ferry  boat  in  Scotland  and  playing  tunes  to  the  passengers  for 
halfpence.  Sir  Charles  adds  "  Charles  Buller  told  Thackeray  of  this, 
and  when  he  complained  thought  it  necessary  to  inform  him  frankly, 
it  was  undoubtedly  his  opinion  that,  out  of  respect  for  himself  and 
his  profession,  a  man  like  him  ought  not  to  have  gone  fiddling  for 
halfpence  or  otherwise  in  any  steamboat  under  the  sun." 

This  is  all  very  well,  but  I  cannot  see  the  necessity  for  all  this 
virtuous  indignation  and  anxiety  for  the  dignity  of  Thackeray  and  the 
literary  profession;  for  not  only  did  Thackeray  not  puff  the  Com- 
pany, but  the  free  passage  was  not  really  given  to  him  by  the 
Company,  but  by  a  friend,  who  had  used  his  influence  to  obtain  it 
from  the  directors,  with  whom  he  was  on  intimate  terms. 


176         TKUUliam  /fcafeepeace  Ubacfcerag 

"Titmarsh  at  Jerusalem  will  certainly  be  an  era  in 
Christianity,"  Fitzgerald  said;  but  Jerusalem  did  not 
arouse  feelings  of  mockery  in  Thackeray ;  there  was  no 
false  sentiment  to  excite  his  satire — indeed,  his  own 
words  show  clearly  that  he  was  moved  at  the  sight  of 
this  city  of  many  traditions. 

"From  this  terrace,"  he  wrote  about  Jerusalem, 
"whence  we  looked  in  the  morning,  a  great  part  of  the 
city  spread  before  us — white  domes  upon  domes,  ter- 
races of  the  same  character  as  our  own.  Here  and 
there,  from  among  these  white-washed  mounds  round 
about,  a  minaret  rose,  or  a  rare  date  tree ;  but  the  chief 
part  of  the  vegetation  near  was  that  odious  tree,  the 
prickly  pear — one  huge  green  wart  growing  out  of 
another,  armed  with  spikes,  as  odious  as  the  aloe,  with- 
out shelter  or  beauty.  To  the  right  the  Mosque  of 
Omar  rose;  the  rising  sun  behind  it.  Yonder  steep, 
tortuous  lane  before  us,  flanked  by  ruined  walls  on  either 
side,  has  borne,  time  out  of  mind,  the  title  of  Via  Dolo- 
rosa,  and  tradition  has  fixed  the  spots  where  the 
Saviour  rested,  bearing  His  cross  to  Calvary.  But  of 
the  mountain,  rising  immediately  in  front  of  us,  a  few 
grey  olive  trees  speckling  the  yellow  sides  here  and 
there,  there  can  be  no  question.  That  is  the  Mount  of 
Olives.  Bethany  lies  beyond  it.  The  most  sacred  eyes 
that  ever  looked  on  this  world  have  gazed  on  those 
ridges;  it  was  there  He  used  to  walk  and  teach.  With 
shamed  humility  one  looks  towards  the  spot  where  that 
inexpressible  Love  and  Benevolence  lived  and  breathed ; 
where  the  great  yearning  heart  of  the  Saviour  interceded 
for  all  our  race;  and  whence  the  bigots  and  traitors  of 
His  day  led  Him  away  to  kill  Him." 


flMscellaneous  Hutborsbip—  "puncb"    177 

There  is  nothing  in  the  above  passage  but  what  any 
believer  in  Christianity  might  write;  it  is  full  of  an 
overpowering  love  and  awe,  such  as  man  feels  under  such 
circumstances  when  certain  emotions  are  aroused. 

The  Pyramids,  however,  had  quite  another  effect. 
This  is  his  description  of  the  marvels:  — 

"Looking  ahead  in  an  hour  or  two,  we  saw  the 
Pyramids.  Fancy  my  sensations,  dear  M  -  ;  two  big 
ones  and  a  little  one  : 


"There  they  lay,  rosy  and  solemn  in  the  distance  — 
those  old  majestic,  mystical,  familiar  edifices.  Several 
of  us  tried  to  be  impressed  ;  but  breakfast  supervening, 
a  rush  was  made  at  the  coffee  and  cold  pies,  and  the  sen- 
timent of  awe  was  lost  in  the  scramble  for  victuals.  Are 
we  so  blasts  of  the  world  that  the  greatest  marvels  in  it 
do  not  succeed  in  moving  us?  Have  Society,  Pall  Mall 
Clubs,  and  a  habit  of  sneering,  so  withered  up  our  organs 
of  veneration  that  we  can  admire  no  more?  My  sensa- 
tion with  regard  to  the  Pyramids  was  that  I  had  seen 
them  before  ;  then  came  a  feeling  of  shame  that  the  view 
of  them  should  awaken  no  respect.  Then  I  wanted 
(naturally)  to  see  whether  my  neighbours  were  any  more 
enthusiastic  than  myself  —  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  was 
busy  with  the  cold  ham,  Downing  Street  was  particu- 
larly attentive  to  a  bunch  of  grapes;  Figtree  Court 
behaved  with  decent  propriety;  he  is  in  good  practice, 
and  of  a  conservative  turn  of  mind,  which  leads  him  to 
respect  from  principle  les  faits  accomplis;  perhaps  he 
remembered  that  one  of  them  was  as  big  as  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields.  But  the  truth  is,  nobody  was  seriously 


178         TKHUUam  flDafcepeace 

moved,  .  .  .  and  why  should  they,  because  of  an 
exaggeration  of  bricks  ever  so  enormous?  I  confess  for 
my  part  that  the  Pyramids  are  very  big." 

There  are  two  extracts  from  the  Notes  I  cannot  refrain 
from  including  here — they  are  so  full  of  beautiful  paternal 
love  and  tenderness.  The  first  is  the  concluding  verse 
of  the  famous  White  Squall  ballad : — 

"And  when,  its  force  expended, 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea, 
I  thought  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking 
And  smiling  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me." 

The  second  passage  is  even  more  charming,  and  I 
make  no  apology  forgiving  it  in  its  entirety:  "But  that 
Alexandrian  two-pair  front  of  a  Consulate  was  more  wel- 
come and  cheering  than  a  palace  to  most  of  us.  For 
there  lay  certain  letters,  with  postmarks  of  Home  upon 
them,  and  kindly  tidings,  the  first  heard  for  two  months ; 
— though  we  had  seen  so  many  men  and  cities  since, 
that  Cornhill  seemed  to  be  a  year  off  at  least,  with  certain 
persons  dwelling  (more  or  less)  in  that  vicinity.  I  saw  a 
young  Oxford  man  seize  his  despatches,  and  slink  off 
with  several  letters  written  in  a  light,  neat  hand,  and 
sedulously  crossed;  which  any  man  can  see,  without 
looking  further,  were  the  handiwork  of  Mary  Anne,  to 
whom  he  is  attached.  The  lawyer  received  a  bundle 
from  his  chambers,  in  which  his  clerk  eased  his  soul 
regarding  the  state  of  Snooks  v.  Rogers,  Smith  ats. 
Tomkins,  etc.  The  statesman  had  a  packet  of  thick 
envelopes  decorated  with  that  profusion  of  sealing  wax 
in  which  official  recklessness  lavishes  the  resources  of  the 


flDiscellaneous  Hutborsbip— "puncb"     179 

country;  and.  your  humble  servant  got  just  one  little 
modest  letter,  containing  another,  written  in  pencil  char- 
acters varying  in  size  between  one  and  two  inches,  but 
how  much  pleasanter  to  read  than  my  Lord's  despatch, 
or  the  clerk's  account  of  Smith  ats.  Tomkins — yes,  even 
than  the  Mary  Anne  correspondence!  .  .  .  Yes,  my 
dear  Madam,  you  will  understand  me,  when  I  say  that  it 
was  from  little  Polly  at  home,  with  some  confidential 
news  about  a  cat,  and  the  last  report  of  her  new  doll. 
It  is  worth  while  to  have  made  the  journey  for  the  pleas- 
ure; to  have  walked  the  deck  on  long  nights,  and 
thought  of  home.  You  have  no  leisure  to  do  so  in  the 
city.  You  don't  see  the  heavens  shine  above  you  so 
purely  there,  or  the  stars  so  clearly." 


CHAPTER   XI 

NOVELIST   AND    CRITIC 


CHAPTER   XI 

NOVELIST   AND   CRITIC 

THE  event  of  the  year  (1844) — it,  in  fact,  marks  an 
epoch  in  Thackeray's  literary  life — was  the  pub- 
lication in  Fraser's  Magazine  monthly,  from  January  to 
December  (October  excepted)  of  The  Luck  of  Barry 
Lyndon,  A  Romance  of  the  Last  Century.  By  Fitz-Boodle. 
This  story,  of  which  the  later  part  was  written  during 
his  journey  to  and  from  the  East,  seems  to  have  given 
him  more  trouble  to  write  than  any  of  his  earlier  ones, 
and  it  was  with  a  great  sense  of  relief  that  he  brought  it 
to  a  close.  Mrs.  Ritchie  gives  three  extracts  from  his 
diary  that  are  well  worth  recording.  "Malta,  Novem- 
ber i. — Wrote  Barry,  but  slowly  and  with  great  diffi- 
culty." "November  2. — Wrote  Barry  with  no  more 
success  than  yesterday."  "November  3. — Finished 
Barry  after  great  throes,  late  at  night. ' '  The  story  met 
with  no  great  success  during  its  publication,  but  the 
discerning  few  who  appreciated  the  merits  of  The  Great 
Hoggarty  Diamond  were  now  satisfied  that  they  had  dis- 
covered a  mighty  man  of  genius,  who  must  leave  an 
impression  upon  the  pages  of  Victorian  literature. 

Thackeray  must  have  worked  harder  than  ever  this 
year,  especially  before  he  left  England  in  August,  for 
his  literary  output  was  enormous.  Besides  Barry  Lyn- 
don he  sent  to  Fraser: — 

(i)  A  Box  of  Novels  (February),  containing  criticisms 

183 


184         TRUUliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfterap 

of  Tom  Burke,  Harry  Lorrequer,  L.S.D.  (by  Lever), 
The  Miser's  Son,  The  Burgomaster  of  Berlin,  and  Dick- 
ens's  Christmas  Carol. 

(ii)  Little  Travels  and  Roadside  Sketches:  From  Rich- 
mond in  Surrey  to  Brussels  in  Belgium  (May) — Ghent  to 
Bruges  (October) — Waterloo  (January,  1845). 

(iii)  May  Gambols,  or  Titmarsh  in  the  Picture  Gal- 
leries (June). 

(iv)  Carmen  Lilliense,  dated  Lille,  September  2,  a 
delightful  little  poem,  narrating  an  incident  that  had 
occurred  to  the  author  during  his  stay  at  Lille,  when  his 
purse  was  stolen  and  he  was  absolutely  without  money 
until  he  could  receive  remittances  from  England.  The 
refrain  of  the  song  runs : — 

"  My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal? 
I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille." 

But  happiness  comes  to  him  after  days  of  misery : — 

"  What  see  I  on  my  table  stand? 

A  letter  with  a  well-known  seal! 
'Tis  grandmamma's!     I  know  her  hand: 

'  To  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Lille.' 
I  feel  a  choking  in  my  throat, 

I  pant  and  stagger,  faint  and  reel! 
It  is — it  is — a  ten-pound  note, 

And  I'm  no  more  in  pawn  at  Lille! " 

[He  goes  off  by  the  diligence  that  evening  and  is 
restored  to  the  bosom  of  his  happy  family.] 

The  New  Monthly  Magazine  received  two  tales  from 
Launcelot  Wagstaff — a  relation,  it  may  be,  of  The'ophile 
Wagstaffe  of  Flore  et  Zephyr  fame — The  Partie  Fine 
(May)  and  Greenwich — Whitebait  (July);  the  Morning 
Chronicle  (April  2),  a  review  of  a  book  by  R.  H.  Home, 


IRovelist  anfc  Critic  185 

entitled  A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age;  and  Punch,  The  His- 
tory of  the  next  French  Revolution  (in  nine  parts),  and 
The  Wanderings  and  Travelling  Notes,  both  by  Our  Fat 
Contributor,  which  were  continued  in  the  following  year. 

About  this  -time  Thackeray  obtained  the  assistant 
editorship  of  the  Examiner,  to  which  paper  he  was  a 
contributor,  and  he  held  the  post  until  1848,  when  he 
resigned,  because  it  took  up  more  time  than  he  could 
afford  to  give  for  four  guineas  a  week.  A  propos  of  his 
great  prolixity,  Edward  Fitzgerald  wrote  in  May  (1844) 
to  Frederick  Tennyson:  "I  see  in  Punch  a  humourous 
catalogue  of  supposed  pictures;  Prince  Albert's  favourite 
spaniel  and  bootjack,  the  Queen's  Micaw  with  a  muffin, 
etc.,  by  Landseer,  etc.,  in  which  I  recognize  Thackeray's 
fancy.  He  is  in  full  vigour,  play,  and  pay  in  London, 
writing  in  a  dozen  reviews,  and  a  score  of  newspapers, 
and  while  his  health  lasts  he  sails  before  the  wind.  .  ." 

In  1845  he-  wrote  more  than  ever.  This  was  probably 
due  to  the  beneficial  results  of  the  voyage  upon  his 
health.  The  New  Monthly  Magazine  printed  in  July  two 
more  stories  by  Mr.  Wagstaff — The  Chest  of  Cigars  (in 
which  he  prints  a  story  related  to  him  by  General  Sir 
Goliah  Gahagan,  H.E.I.C.S.);  and,  in  the  next  month, 
Bob  Robinson  s  First  Love. 

To  Cruikshank,  for  his  Table  Book,  he  sent  A 
Legend  of  the  Rhine,  which  is  a  clever  burlesque  of  the 
elder  Dumas's  L1  Othon  r Archer;  but  Punch  received  a 
whole  list  of  contributions — Punch  in  the  East,  Medita- 
tions on  Solitude,  Beulah  Spa,  Brighton,  A  Brighton 
Night's  Entertainment,  Meditations  Over  Brighton,  The 
Georges,  A  Doe  in  the  City,  A  Lucky  Speculation,  with  the 
famous  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square,  Jeames  on  Time  Barg- 
ings,  and  the  commencement  of  the  immortal  Jeames  s 


186         William  flDafeepeace 

Diary,  which  was  largely  quoted  in  the  papers  at  the 
time,  and  has  since  been  dramatised. 

Fraser  had  Picture  Gossip  (June),  his  annual  criticism 
on  the  May  exhibitions;  Barmecide  Banquets  (Novem- 
ber), a  review  of  the  Practical  Cook;  and  About  a  Christ- 
mas Book. 

Thackeray's  art  criticisms  were  not  at  all  pleasant 
reading  to  the  painters  of  the  day,  as  a  single  perusal 
will  convince  any  one,  and  there  is  rather  an  amusing 
passage  about  the  way  the  artists  felt  towards  Thackeray 
in  a  letter  written  in  June  by  Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Fred- 
erick Tennyson  about  Picture  Gossip:  "If  you  want  to 
know  something  of  the  Exhibition,  however,  read 
Fraser 's  Magazine  for  this  month ;  there  Thackeray  has 
a  paper  on  the  matter  full  of  fun.  I  met  Stone  in  the 
street  the  other  day;  he  took  me  by  the  button,  and 
told  me  in  perfect  sincerity  and  with  increasing  warmth 
how,  though  he  loved  old  Thackeray,  yet  these  yearly 
out-speakings  of  his  sorely  tried  him ;  not  on  account  of 
himself  (Stone),  but  on  account  of  some  of  his  friends, 
Charles  Landseer,  Maclise,  etc.  Stone  worked  himself 
up  to  such  a  pitch  under  the  pressure  of  forced  calmness 
that  he  at  last  said  Thackeray  would  get  himself  horse- 
whipped one  day  by  one  of  those  infuriated  Appellesses. 
At  this  I,  who  had  partly  agreed  with  Stone  that  ridi- 
cule, though  true,  need  not  always  be  spoken,  began  to 
laugh,  and  told  him  two  could  play  at  that  game.  These 
painters  cling  together  and  bolster  each  other  up  to  such 
a  degree  that  they  really  have  persuaded  themselves  that 
any  one  who  ventures  to  laugh  at  one  of  their  drawings, 
exhibited  publicly  for  the  express  purpose  of  criticism, 
insults  the  whole  corps.  Thackeray  laughs  at  all  this, 
and  goes  on  in  his  own  way ;  writing  hard  for  half  a  day. 


IRovelist  ant>  Critic  187 

Reviews  and  newspapers  all  the  morning;  dining, 
drinking,  and  talking  of  a  night ;  managing  to  preserve 
a  fresh  colour  and  perpetual  flow  of  spirits  under  a  wear 
and  tear  of  thinking  and  feeding  that  would  have 
knocked  up  all  the  other  men  I  know  two  years  ago,  at 
least." 

In  this  same  year  (1845)  Thackeray  figures  for  the 
first,  and  I  believe,  the  only  time,  as  an  Edinburgh 
Reviewer. 

The  two  following  letters  of  Thackeray  may  fitly  be 
inserted  here.  They  are  taken  from  the  Macvey-Napier 
Papers  in  the  British  Museum  Library.  The  first  letter 
has,  I  believe,  not  been  published  before,  while  the 
second  is  of  distinct  literary  value  as  giving  Thackeray's 
opinion  of  Eugene  Sue  as  a  writer  of  fiction. 

"  REFORM  CLUB,  Sunday,  6  April,  [1845.] 
"MY  DEAR  SIR, — I  hardly  know  what  subject  to 
point  out  as  suited  to  my  capacity — light  matter  con- 
nected with  art,  humourous  reviews,  critiques  of  novels — 
French  subjects,  memoirs,  poetry,  history  from  Louis 
XV.  downwards  and  of  an  earlier  period — that  of  Frois- 
sart  and  of  Monstrelet — German  light  literature  and 
poetry — though  of  these  I  know  but  little  beyond  what  I 
learned  in  a  year's  residence  in  the  country  14  years  ago. 
Finally,  subjects  relating  to  society  in  general,  where  a 
writer  may  be  allowed  to  display  the  humourous  ego,  or  a 
victim  is  to  be  gently  immolated.  But  I  am  better  able 
to  follow  than  to  lead,  and  should  hope  to  give  satisfac- 
tion in  my  small  way. 

"Very  faithfully  yours,  dear  Sir, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY. 
"To  T.  LONGMAN,  ESQ." 


1 88         TKliUiam  flDafcepeace 

[This  letter  is  endorsed:  "T.  L.  has  written  to  Mr. 
Thackeray  as  requested  by  Mr.  Napier.  Apr.  7 — '45."] 

On  July  1 6  Thackeray  wrote  direct  to  Macvey  Napier 
as  follows,  suggesting  an  article  for  the  Edinburgh. 

"88,  ST.  JAMES  ST.,  id  July,  1845. 

"DEAR  SIR, — I  am  glad  to  comply  with  your  request 
that  I  should  address  you  personally,  and  thank  you  for 
the  letter  which  you  have  written  to  Mr.  Longman 
regarding  my  contribution  to  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

"Eugene  Sue  has  written  a  very  great  number  of 
novels — beginning  with  maritime  novels  in  the  Satanic 
style  so  to  speak — full  of  crime  and  murder  of  every 
description.  He  met  in  his  early  work  with  no  very 
great  success.  He  gave  up  the  indecencies  of  language 
and  astonished  the  world  with  Mathilde  three  years 
since,  which  had  the  singular  quality  among  French 
novels  of  containing  no  improprieties  of  expression.  In 
my  mind  it  is  one  of  the  most  immoral  books  in  the 
world.  The  Mysteries  of  Paris  followed,  with  still 
greater  success,  and  the  same  extreme  cleverness  of  con- 
struction, and  the  same  sham  virtue.  It  has  been  sold 
by  tens  of  thousands  in  London  in  various  shapes,  in 
American  editions,  and  illustrated  English  translations. 
The  book  just  translated  is  an  old  performance — it  is 
called  Latreaumont  in  the  French  original. 

"To  go  through  a  course  of  Sue's  writings  would 
require,  I  should  think,  more  than  a  short  article — and 
the  subject  has  been  much  dealt  with  in  minor  period- 
icals here. 

"The  Glances  at  Life  is  a  very  kindly  and  agreeable 
little  book  by  a  Cockney  philosopher — could  it  be 
coupled  in  an  article  with  N.  P.  Willis's  Dashes  at  Life, 
which  Messrs.  Longman  now  advertise? 


•novelist  anfc  Critic  189 

"A  pleasant  short  paper  might  be  written,  I  fancy, 
commenting  upon  the  humours  of  the  pair.  Should  the 
subject  meet  with  your  approval  perhaps,  you  will  give 
me  notice ;  and  state  what  space  the  Review  can  afford. 
Should  you  not  approve  I  will  look  through  Lady  Hester 
Stanhope  and  hope  to  be  able  to  treat  it  to  your  satis- 
faction. I  am  bringing  out  a  little  book  about  the 
Mediterranean  which  I  hope  shortly  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  sending  you. 

"Dear  Sir,  Your  very  obedient  Servant, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

"PROFESSOR  NAPIER." 

In  the  Correspondence  of  Abraham  Hayward  a  letter 
is  printed  that  Mr.  Hayward  received  from  Macvey 
Napier,  then  the  Editor  of  the  Review: — 

"Will  you  tell  me  confidentially,  of  course,  whether 
you  know  anything  of  a  Mr.  Thackeray,  about  whom 
Longman  has  written  me,  thinking  he  would  be  a  good 
hand  for  light  articles?  He  says  that  this  Mr.  Thackeray 
is  one  of  the  best  writers  in  Punch.  One  requires  to  be 
very  much  on  one's  guard  in  engaging  with  mere  strang- 
ers. In  a  Journal  like  the  Edinburgh,  it  is  always  of 
importance  to  keep  up  in  respect  of  names." 

It  was  immediately  on  receipt  of  Hay  ward's  answer, 
which  must  have  been  satisfactory — though  I  have  not 
been  able  to  find  a  copy  of  it — that  Mr.  Napier  com- 
municated with  Thackeray. 

Mr.  Napier  probably  hesitated  at  entrusting  a  very 
long  article  to  a  new  man,  and  chose  the  alternative — 
the  Willis  Review — which  appeared  in  the  October  num- 
ber, but  very  much  mutilated;  and  it  is  to  this  that 
Thackeray  refers  in  a  charming  and  graceful  letter  to 
Mr.  Napier,  dated  St.  James  Street,  October  16,  1845  : — 


190         Milliam  flDafeepeace 

"MY  DEAR  SIR, — I  have  just  read  and  acknowledge 
with  many  thanks  your  banker's  bill.  From  them  or 
from  you,  I  shall  always  be  delighted  to  receive  com- 
munications of  this  nature.  From  your  liberal  payment 
I  can't  but  conclude  that  you  reward  me,  not  only  for 
labouring,  but  for  being  mutilated  in  your  service.  I 
assure  you  I  suffered  cruelly  by  the  amputation  which 
you  were  obliged  to  inflict  upon  my  poor  dear  paper. 
I  mourn  still — as  what  father  can  help  doing  for  his 
children? — for  several  lovely  jokes  and  promising  facetiae 
which  were  born  and  might  have  lived,  but  for  your  scis- 
sors urged  by  ruthless  necessity.  I  trust,  however,  that 
there  are  many  more  which  the  future  may  bring  forth, 
and  which  will  meet  with  more  favour  in  your  eyes.  I 
quite  agree  with  your  friend  who  says  Willis  was  too 
leniently  used.  O,  to  think  of  my  pet  passages  gone 
for  ever!  "Very  faithfully  yours, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY."* 

"The  little  book  about  the  Mediterranean"  appeared 
some  months  later,  and  its  full  title  is  Notes  of  a  Journey 
from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo  by  way  of  Lisbon,  Athens, 
Constantinople,  and  Jerusalem,  performed  in  the  steamers 
of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company.  By  Mr.  M.  A . 
Titmarsh,  A  uthor  of ' (  The  Irish  Sketchbook, ' '  etc.  Chap- 
man &  Hall  published  the  volume,  which  bore  a  dedica- 
tion dated  December  24,  1845,  to  Captain  Lewis. 

In  1846  his  writings  were  in  the  main  confined  to 
Fraser  and  Punch.  To  the  Magazine  he  sent  the  poem 
Ronsard  to  his  Mistress  (January),  A  Brother  of  the  Press 
on  the  History  of  a  Literary  Man,  Laman  Blanchard,  and 
the  Chances  of  the  Literary  Profession  (March) ;  On  Some 

*The  Macvey-Napier  Papers;  Selections  from  the  Correspond- 
ence of  the  late  Macvey  Napier. 


Novelist  ant)  Critic  191 

Illustrated  Children  s  Books  (April);  and  Proposals  for 
a  Continuation  of  "Ivan/we"  in  a  letter  to  Monsieur 
Alexandre  Dumas  (August  and  September),  which 
later,  recast  and  expanded,  appeared  as  Rebecca  and 
Rowena. 

Titmarsh  versus  Tait  and  Jeames  on  the  Gauge  Ques- 
tion, came  out  in  Punch,  in  which  paper,  on  February 
28,  appeared  the  first  number  of  a  long  series  of  articles 
that  of  itself  would  have  made  the  lasting  reputation  of 
many  a  less  famous  man — The  Snobs  of  England.  These 
papers  were  so  much  liked  and  so  well  received  that  they 
were  continued,  week  after  week,  without  any  interrup- 
tion, for  a  whole  year,  the  last  number  appearing  in  the 
issue  for  February  27,  1847. 

While  these  papers  were  being  written,  Thackeray 
gave  up  the  chambers  at  88,  St.  James  Street,  he  had 
occupied  for  the  last  two  years,  and  in  1846  made  for 
himself  a  home  at  13  (now  16)  Young  Street.  It  was 
when  passing  by  this  residence  in  after  years,  with  Fields, 
the  American  publisher,  that  Thackeray  exclaimed,  with 
mock  gravity,  "Down  on  your  knees,  you  rogue,  for  here 
Vanity  Fair  was  penned ;  and  I  will  go  down  with  you, 
for  I  have  a  high  opinion  of  that  little  production 
myself." 

To  him  here  in  the  late  autumn  his  children  were 
brought  from  Paris  by  Mrs.  Smyth,  who,  however,  soon 
returned  to  her  husband,  when  her  place  was  taken  by 
her  mother,  who  remained  with  the  children  until  her 
death  in  1848. 

He  was  very  busy,  writing  hard  every  day,  and  very 
poor  nevertheless.  Even  Vanity  Fair,  though  it  brought 
him  fame,  did  not  increase  his  income.  Like  his  father 
before  him,  he  had  many  luxurious  tastes,  which  he  did 


192         Militant  /IDafeepeace 

not  always  refrain  from  indulging,*  and  he  never  heard 
a  tale  of  distress  without  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
to  relieve  the  sufferer  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power. 

He  knew  he  could  always  make  money  by  his  pen, 
and,  though  he  must  have  received  considerable  sums,  he 
never  saved  (except  the  proceeds  of  the  two  courses  of 
Lectures,  which  he  invested  for  his  children)  until  the 
last  years  of  his  life.  But  though  he  may  have  been 
anxious  about  the  future,  he  allowed  nothing  to  interfere 
with  the  pleasure  that  the  arrival  of  his  "  little  girls" 
brought  in  its  train.  He  had  them  constantly  with  him ; 
and  whenever  he  could  snatch  an  hour  or  an  afternoon 
from  his  work,  they  went  for  those  little  outings  that  he 
enjoyed  as  much  as  they.  He  was  never  again  separated 
from  them,  except  when  they  paid  a  visit  to  his  parents 
and  when  he  went  to  America,  and  from  this  time  forth 
they  shared  all  the  pleasures  of  his  life,  until  it  pleased 
God  to  take  him  from  them. 

*"  He  was  a  man  of  sensibility;  he  delighted  in  luxuriously  fur- 
nished and  well  lighted  rooms,  good  music,  excellent  wines  and 
cookery,  exhilarating  talk,  gay  and  airy  gossip,  pretty  women  and 
their  toilettes,  and  refined  and  noble  manners,  '  le  bon  gout,  le  ris, 
1'aimable  liberteV  The  amenities  of  life,  and  the  traditions,  stimu- 
lated his  imagination." — F.  LOCKER-LAMPSON. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THACKERAY  AND   THE   PUBLIC 


CHAPTER   XII 
THACKERAY  AND   THE   PUBLIC 

THE  letter  headed  Barmecide  Banquets,  dated  October 
25,  1845,  commences  as  follows: — 

"MY  DEAR  LIONEL, — There  is  a  comfort  to  think 
that,  however,  other  works  and  masterpieces  bearing  my 
humble  name  have  been  received  by  the  public,  namely 
with  what  I  cannot  but  think  (and  future  age,  will  I  have 
no  doubt,  pronounce)  to  be  unmerited  obloquy  and  inat- 
tention, the  present  article,  at  least,  which  I  address  to 
you  through  the  public  prints,  will  be  read  by  every  one 
of  the  numerous  readers  of  this  magazine.  What  a 
quantity  of  writings  of  the  same  hand  have  you,  my  dear 
friend,  pored  over!  How  much  delicate  wit,  profound 
philosophy  (lurking  hid  under  harlequin's  vermilion) — 
how  many  quiet  wells  of  deep  gushing  pathos  have  you 
failed  to  remark  as  you  hurried  through  those  modest 
pages,  for  which  the  author  himself  here  makes  an  apol- 
ogy ! — not  that  I  quarrel  with  my  lot,  or  rebel  against 
that  meanest  of  martyrdoms,  indifference,  with  which  a 
callous  age  has  visited  me — not  that  I  complain  because 
I  am  not  appreciated  by  the  present  century — no,  no ! — 
he  who  lives  at  this  time  ought  to  know  better  than  to 
be  vexed  by  its  treatment  of  him — he  who  pines  because 
Smith,  or  Snooks,  doesn't  appreciate  him,  has  a  poor, 
puny  vein  of  endurance,  and  pays  those  two  personages 
too  much  honour." 


196         TKntllfam  flDafeepeace 

In  this  passage,  apparently  written  in  a  jocular  strain, 
I  think  Thackeray  described  his  feelings.  He  was  disap- 
pointed that  the  merits  of  his  writings  had  not  been  dis- 
covered, and  rather  hurt  that  in  1846  people  only  said  of 
him,  as  Mr.  Willis  had  written  seven  years  earlier:  "He 
is  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  gifted  of  the  magazine 
writers  in  London."  "I  can  suit  the  magazines,  but  I 
can't  suit  the  public,  be  hanged  to  them!"  he  exclaimed, 
with  some  bitterness,  after  the  failure  of  The  Irish  Sketch 
Book  to  attract  notice. 

Now  every  one  is  well  aware  of  his  ' '  delicate  wit, ' ' 
"profound  philosophy,"  and  "quiet  wells  of  gushing 
pathos,"  and  Thackeray  himself  felt  that  his  day  must 
come  sooner  or  later  (only  it  seemed  more  likely  to  be 
late  than  early),  for  he  was  confident  of  his  genius, 
though  perhaps  ignorant  of  its  extent.  His  lightest 
sketches,  even  his  airy  criticisms,  have  a  ring  about  them 
that  shows  he  knew  his  powers,  and  in  Barry  Lyndon 
there  cannot  be  detected  a  trace  of  mistrust  in  his  capa- 
bilities. Throughout  the  whole  romance  one  feels  the 
hand  of  the  artist  working  at  his  first  great  masterpiece, 
with  absolute  confidence  in  the  ultimate  success  of  his 
labours.  His  magazine  articles  were  for  the  most  part, 
I  think,  regarded  by  him  as  "pot-boilers" — even  as  late 
as  1844  he  wrote:  "Poor  fellows  of  the  pen  and  pencil! 
we  must  live.  The  public  likes  light  literature,  and  we 
write  it.  Here  am  I  writing  magazine  jokes  and  follies, 
and  why?  Because  the  public  likes  such,  and  will  pur- 
chase no  other." 

Ainsworth  published  Rookwood  when  he  was  twenty- 
nine;  Disraeli  was  famous  as  the  author  of  Vivian  Grey 
at  two-and-twenty,  and  had  written  The  Young  Dtike, 
Contarini  Fleming,  The  Revolutionary  Epick,  Alroy, 


anfc  tbe  public  197 

Henrietta  Temple,  and  Venetia,  before  he  was  eleven 
years  older;  Albert  Smith  was  only  twenty-eight  when 
he  made  his  mark  with  the  Adventures  of  Mr.  Ledbury; 
Dickens  had  written  Sketches  by  Boz  when  he  was  four- 
and-twenty,  Pickwick  a  year  later,  and  Oliver  Twist, 
Nicholas  Nicklcby,  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Barnaby 
Rudge,  and  American  Notes,  before  he  was  thirty.  Yet 
Thackeray,  in  his  thirty-sixth  year,  was  unknown  outside 
his  circle.  In  this  chapter  I  shall  endeavour  to  show 
how  it  was  success  came  to  him  so  (comparatively)  late 
in  life.  It  has  been  said  that  this  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  his  genius  took  longer  to  mature  than  that,  let  us 
say,  of  his  contemporary  Dickens;  but  I  am  confident 
that  this  statement  is  unsound,  even  though  Dickens 
wrote  Pickwick  when  he  was  twenty-five,  and  at  the 
same  age  Thackeray  had  written  nothing  of  any  impor- 
tance— the  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond  not  being  written 
until  he  was  thirty,  or  Barry  Lyndon  until  three  years 
after.  This  admission  might  induce  the  superficial 
observer  to  jump  to  conclusions  and  admit  the  plaus- 
ibility of  the  argument ;  but  there  are  weighty  reasons 
beneath  the  surface  which  upset  such  hasty  judgments. 
Dickens  was,  almost  from  his  childhood,  connected  with 
journalism,  and,  not  unnaturally,  at  a  very  early  age 
tried  his  hand  at  short  stories,  which,  meeting  with  suc- 
cess, induced  him  to  attempt  something  more  ambitious, 
which  became  Pickwick!  Thackeray's  life  was  very  dif- 
ferent. Dickens  was  almost  entirely  self-educated,  and 
was  probably  a  reporter  while  Thackeray  was  still  at 
Cambridge,  or  on  his  travels.  Then,  be  it  remembered, 
Thackeray  was  entered  at  the  Middle  Temple  when  he 
came  of  age,  and  though  he  may  not  have  studied  hard, 
yet  as  he  was  a  man  of  means  he  had  no  need  to  turn 


198         Milliam  /fcafeepeace 

to  Literature  for  bread.  Even  when  he  lost  his  fortune, 
it  was  to  Art,  and  not  to  Literature,  that  he  looked  for 
a  living;  and  almost  as  late  as  the  publication  of  Pick- 
wick, Edinburgh  Reviewer  Hayward  well  remembered 
seeing  him  "day  after  day,  engaged  in  copying  pictures 
in  the  Louvre,  in  order  to  qualify  himself  for  his  profes- 
sion." 

S'asseoir  entre  deux  selles,"  le  cut  &  terres,  is  a  proverb 
of  by  no  means  recent  origin ;  and  if  Art  and  Letters 
stand  for  the  two  stools  it  is  easy  to  find  at  least  one 
reason  why  Thackeray  did  not  write  Barry  Lyndon  when 
he  was  five-and-twenty. 

See  how  Anthony  Trollope,  in  the  biographical  intro- 
duction to  the  volume  in  the  "Men  of  Letters"  series, 
on  "Thackeray,"  has  endeavoured  to  solve  the  problem. 
He  tells  how  Thackeray  had  a  marked  want  of  assurance, 
("I  can  fancy,"  Trollope  says,  "that  as  the  sheets  went 
from  him  every  day,  he  told  himself,  with  regard  to 
every  sheet,  that  it  was  a  failure.  Dickens  was  quite 
sure  of  his  sheet");  that  he  was  "unsteadfast,  idle, 
changeable  of  purpose,  aware  of  his  own  intellect,  but 
not  trusting  it";  and  lastly,  that  "no  man  ever  failed 
more  than  he  to  put  his  best  foot  foremost."  Now,  this 
explanation  is,  on  the  face  of  it,  most  unconvincing,  and, 
what  is  far  worse,  misleading.  Though  Dickens,  and 
Trollope  also,  we  may  be  certain,  felt  quite  sure  of  their 
sheets,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  question — though  if  it  has,  or  even  if  it  has  not, 
it  is  something  Thackeray  never  overcame. 

But  then,  perhaps  this  dissatisfaction  with  his  work 
was  because,  besides  being  a  novelist,  Thackeray  was  an 
artist  to  his  finger-tips,  and  that,  while  lesser  men  might 
turn  away  from  their  completed  work  with  a  self-satisfied 


ant)  tbe  public  199 

smile,  Thackeray  would  glance  at  his  mournfully,  re-read 
it  perhaps,  and  think,  not  whether  the  public  would  like 
it,  but  how  far  from  perfect  in  his  eyes  were  the  pages 
he  had  written.  Indeed,  all  his  life  long  he  was  con- 
scious that  his  work  might  be  improved,  and  it  was 
with  a  sigh  that  he  sent  the  sheets  from  him  to  the 
printer. 

The  other  charges  of  idleness,  etc.,  may  be  left  alone 
for  the  moment,  while  I  do  my  best  to  explain  the  rea- 
son that  deferred  the  popular  acknowledgment  of  his 
genius  until  he  was  thirty-seven  years  old. 

The  reason  is  startling:  Thackeray  had  not  given  the 
public  a  fair  chance  to  discover  him — I  hope  I  can  prove 
it  convincingly. 

Remember  the  number  of  pseudonyms  he  used.  Had 
he  elect  ed  always  to  write  over  Titmarsh  this  would  have 
been  perfectly  immaterial.  Titmarsh  would  have  been 
as  much  appreciated  as  "Thackeray"  should  have  been. 
But,  besides  his  contributions  to  Punch  over  various 
fantastic  signatures,  and  the  anonymous  work  for  the 
magazines  and  journals,  while  Michael  Angela  Titmarsh 
wrote  most  of  the  reviews  in  Fraser,  The  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond,  The  Sketch  Book,  and  a  host  of  short  stories, 
it  was  Ikey  Solomon  who  wrote  Catherine,  Yellowplush 
who  wrote  the  Correspondence  and  Diary,  Major  Gahagan 
who  wrote  his  own  Tremendous  Adventures,*  The  Pro- 
fessor, and  Sultan  Stork,  and  who  supplied  Mr.  Wag- 
staff  with  material  for  one  of  the  four  stories  credited  to 
that  gentleman.  Fitz- Boodle  wrote  his  own  Confessions, 
Professions,  Men  s  Wives,  and  The  Luck  of  Barry  Lyn- 
don; and  Thackeray,  under  his  own  name,  only  Captain 

*It  is  true  that  when  republished  in  the  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches 
Mr.  Titmarsh  edited  these  two  stories. 


200         THUiliam  /IDafeepeace 

Rook  and  Mr.  Pigeon,  The  Fashionable  Authoress,  and 
Going  to  see  a  Man  Hanged. 

This  rendered  it  difficult  even  for  the  initiated  to 
recognise  all  his  work,  and  to  the  average  reader  each 
name  suggested  a  different  author. 

Thackeray  himself  has  explained  the  necessity  that 
drove  him  to  the  use  of  so  many  noms-de-plume.  "It 
may  so  happen  to  a  literary  man,"  he  wrote  in  Brown 
on  the  Press,  "that  the  stipend  which  he  receives  from 
one  publication  is  not  sufficient  to  boil  his  family  pot,  and 
that  he  must  write  in  some  other  quarter.  If  Brown 
writes  articles  in  the  daily  papers,  and  articles  in  the 
weekly  and  monthly  periodicals  too,  and  signs  the  same, 
he  surely  weakens  his  force  by  extending  his  line.  It 
would  be  better  for  him  to  write  incognito  than  to  pla- 
card his  name  in  so  many  quarters — as  actors  understand, 
who  do  not  perform  in  too  many  pieces  on  the  same 
night,  and  as  painters,  who  know  it  is  not  worth  their 
while  to  exhibit  more  than  a  certain  number  of  pictures. 

He  also  realised  that  this  was  not  the  high-road  to 
fame.  "It  cannot  be  denied,"  he  says  in  the  same 
article,  "that  men  of  signal  ability  will  write  for  years  in 
papers  and  perish  unknown — and  in  so  far  their  lot  is  a 
hard  one,  and  the  chances  of  life  are  against  them.  It  is 
hard  upon  a  man,  with  whose  work  the  whole  town  is 
ringing,  that  not  a  soul  should  know  or  care  who  is  the 
author  who  so  delights  the  public." 

Then,  too,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  only  books 
he  had  published  before  Vanity  Fair  were  The  Paris 
Sketch  Book  and  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches,  which  were 
reprinted  magazine  articles  of  not  the  greatest  value; 
The  Irish  Sketch  Book  and  From  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo, 
both  interesting,  intelligent,  and  cleverly  written;  and 


Ubacfcera£  anfc  tbe  public  201 

the  notoriously  unpopular  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon. 
Now  all  these  books  are  very  excellent  reading — for 
though  Thackeray's  magazine  articles  might  be  hack- 
work, they  were  undoubtedly  very  superior  hack-work — 
but  they  scarcely  showed  that  a  new  genius  had  arisen ; 
and  even  to-day  these  early  books  are  among  the  least 
read  of  Thackeray's  works. 

Of  course,  I  know  it  will  be  objected  that  no  men- 
tion is  made  of  the  best  of  Thackeray's  early  writings — 
The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,  The  Luck  of  Barry  Lyn- 
don, and  The  Snobs  of  England — and  I  have  purposely 
avoided  naming  these,  for  the  first  two  had  only  appeared, 
and  the  last  was  still  appearing  in  the  periodicals,  and  I 
do  not  think  it  can  be  denied  that  even  we,  who  know 
their  value,  would  fully  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  two 
tales,  had  we  first  so  read  them  then,  one  in  four,  the 
other  in  a  dozen  doses,  there  being  a  month's  interval 
between  the  doses.  This  objection,  however,  is  somewhat 
discounted  in  the  case  of  the  Snob  Papers,  as  they  might, 
without  losing  their  charm,  indeed  with  advantage,  be 
read  singly,  being  really  only  so  many  units,  bound 
together  at  the  fountain  head.  But  this  does  not 
destroy  my  reasoning,  for  who,  among  the  public,  knew 
that  the  "Snobographer"  was  Mr.  Titmarsh? 

This  very  simple  explanation  is,  in  my  opinion,  the 
true  solution  of  the  somewhat  complex  problem. 

But  there  may  be  some  readers  who  may  not  yet  be 
convinced.  For  them  let  me  adduce  additional  argu- 
ments. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  public,  with  wonderful  dis- 
cernment, had  recognised  all  his  writings,  and  let  us 
further  suppose  that,  recognising  them,  the  public  had 
had  every  chance  to  read  them,  and  had  read  them — how 


202         umilliam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfeera}? 

much  would  the  position  be  changed?  Not  very  much, 
I  think.  He  would  have  been  more  appreciated  by  the 
few,  perhaps,  but  just  as  much  neglected  by  the  many. 
One  important  reason  for  this  is  that  while  most  of 
his  contemporaries,  in  spite  of  (or  perhaps  because  of) 
this  fine  quality,  appealed  to  the  gallery,  and  on  occa- 
sions were  not  above  playing  to  it.  Thackeray,  so  far 
from  lowering  himself  to  the  level  of  the  public,  held  it 
the  duty  of  the  artist  to  educate  it  to  his  own  intellectual 
level  —  a  performance  painfully  slow  and  not  at  all 
remunerative  to  the  tutor.* 

Apart  from  the  high  intellectual  level  of  Thackeray's 
writings,  nothing  would  induce  him  to  abate  one  jot  of 
his  prejudices  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  public,  though  no 
one  knew  better  than  he  what  would  suit  the  majority  of 
novel-readers. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  in  one  of  his  lectures  on  the 
Humourists,  "I  suppose  as  long  as  novels  last,  and 
authors  aim  at  interesting  their  public,  there  must  always 
be  in  the  story  a  virtuous  and  gallant  hero,  a  wicked 
monster,  his  opposite,  and  a  pretty  girl  who  finds  a 
champion :  bravery  and  virtue  conquer  beauty,  and  vice, 
after  seeming  to  triumph  through  a  certain  number  of 
pages,  is  sure  to  be  discomfited  in  the  last  volume,  when 

*There  is  another  similar  instance  in  the  case  of  the  popularity 
of  the  greatest  of  our  living  novelists — the  only  name  of  our  day  that 
may  without  absurdity  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with 
Thackeray.  Mr.  George  Meredith  published  his  first  volume  of 
poems  when  The  Newcomes  was  still  lisping  in  numbers:  his  earliest 
masterpiece,  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  when  he  was  thirty-one 
(in  1859);  and  even  this  remained  practically  unknown  to  the  reading 
public  until  the  last  few  years.  Even  to-day,  after  the  Egoist  and 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  have  appeared,  the  circle  of  his  readers  is 
absurdly  small,  and  Mr.  Meredith  is  unappreciated,  unknown  even 
beyond  the  little  world  of  those  who  see  the  "  Master's"  genius.  And 
the  only  reason  for  the  lack  of  popularity  is,  the  public  is  not  yet 
educated  up  to  Mr.  Meredith's  standard  of  intellect. 


anfc  tbe  public  203 

justice  overtakes  him,  and  honest  folks  come  by  their 
own.  There  never  was  perhaps  a  greatly  popular  story 
but  this  simple  plot  was  carried  through  it :  mere  satiric 
wit  is  addressed  to  a  class  of  readers  quite  different  to 
those  simple  souls  who  laugh  and  weep  over  the  novel. 
I  fancy  very  few  ladies  indeed  could  be  brought  to  like 
Gulliver  heartily,  and  (putting  the  coarseness  and  differ- 
ence of  manners  out  of  the  question)  to  relish  the  won- 
derful satire  of  Jonathan  Wild." 

Yet,  knowing  this,  and  anxious  as  he  was  to  obtain 
the  approbation  of  his  female  readers,  he  bravely  and 
deliberately  wrote  on  in  his  own  way,  preaching  his  own 
philosophy,  and  indulging  in  his  own  satiric  humour; 
even  the  finest  work  he  produced  before  Vanity  Fair  must 
be  included  in  the  same  class  as  Jonathan  Wild — a  work 
which  has  never  been  popular  with  the  general  reader. 
When  a  critic  accuses  him — as  some  few  still  do — of  hav- 
ing preached  his  cynical  philosophy  for  profit,  let  them 
consider  how  much  more  profitable  it  would  have  been 
for  him  to  write  in  the  style  of  Bulwer,  or  Lever,  or 
Disraeli,  as  he  so  clearly  showed  he  could  have  done. 
To  give  an  example :  What  success  would  probably  have 
rewarded  the  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon  had  he  written 
to  please  the  public,  instead  of  presenting  the  work  to  a 
hero-loving  nation  in  a  form  that  he  knew  ran  counter  to 
the  feelings  of  the  book-buyers.  Read  an  extract  from 
the  volume: — 

"I  feel  that  you  are  angry.  I  can  see  from  here  the 
pouting  of  your  lips,  and  know  what  you  are  going  to 
say.  You  are  going  to  say,  'I  will  read  no  more  of  this 
Mr.  Titmarsh.  There  is  no  subject,  however  solemn, 
but  he  treats  it  with  flippant  reverence,  and  no  character, 
however  great,  at  whom  he  does  not  sneer.' 


204         William  /IDafeepeace 

"Ah,  my  dear!  you  are  young  now  and  enthusi- 
astic, and  your  Titmarsh  is  old,  very  old,  sad,  and  grey- 
headed. I  have  seen  a  poor  mother  buy  a  halfpenny- 
wreath  at  the  gate  of  Montmartre  burying-ground,  and 
go  with  it  to  her  little  child's  grave,  and  hang  it  there 
over  the  humble  little  stone;  and  if  ever  you  saw  me 
scorn  the  mean  offering  of  the  poor,  shabby  creature,  I 
will  give  you  leave  to  be  as  angry  as  you  will.  .  .  . 
Something  great  and  good  must  have  been  in  this  man" 
[Napoleon],  "something  loving  and  kindly,  that  has  kept 
his  name  so  cherished  in  the  popular  memory,  and  gained 
him  such  lasting  reverence  and  affection. 

"But,  madam,  one  may  respect  the  dead  without 
feeling  awestricken  at  the  plumes  of  the  hearse ;  and  I 
see  no  reason  why  one  should  sympathise  with  the  train 
of  mutes  and  undertakers,  however  deep  may  be  their 
mourning." 

But  that  was  Thackeray  all  over.  As  he  said  in  the 
Charity  and  Humour  lecture : — 

' '  The  author  of  this  work' '  [  Vanity  Fair]  ' '  has  lately 
been  described  by  the  London  Times  newspaper  as  a 
writer  of  considerable  parts,  but  a  dreary  misanthrope, 
who  sees  no  good  anywhere,  who  sees  the  sky  above  him 
green,  I  think,  instead  of  blue,  and  only  miserable  sin- 
ners around  him.  So  we  are,  as  is  every  writer  and 
reader  I  ever  heard  of,  so  was  every  being  who  ever  trod 
this  earth,  save  One.  I  cannot  help  telling  the  truth  as 
I  view  it,  and  describing  what  I  see.  To  describe  it 
otherwise  than  it  seems  to  me  would  be  falsehood  in  that 
calling  in  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  place  me; 
treason  to  that  conscience  which  says  that  men  are 
weak;  that  truth  must  be  told;  that  faults  must  be 


anfc  tbe  public  205 

owned ;  that  pardon  must  be  prayed  for ;  and  that  Love 
reigns  supreme  over  all." 

There  is  Thackeray's  confession  of  literary  faith. 

But  I  can  further  support  my  statement  that  Thack- 
eray would  not  have  been  a  popular  writer,  even  if  his 
writings  had  been  more  widely  known,  with  the  sweep- 
ing assertion  that  all  his  earlier  work,  in  spite  of  its 
cleverness,  in  spite  of  its  wit  and  wisdom,  and  in  spite 
of,  or  more  probably  because  of,  its  very  truth,  is 
most  unpleasant  and  painful  reading.* 

Let  me  briefly  discuss  these  writings — I  take  the 
appearance  of  the  Snob  Papers  as  bringing  to  a  close  the 
first  part  of  his  literary  life.  This  is  no  arbitrary  deci- 
sion, for  it  is  the  rightly  drawn  boundary-line  that  sepa- 
rates the  clever  and  brilliant,  but  unrecognised,  writer 
of  magazine  articles  and  short  stories  from  the  successful 
novelist.  They  are  best  divided  into  (I)  art-criticisms 
and  literary  reviews,  and  (II)  tales  and  sketches. 

The  former  will  be  treated  in  later  chapters.  The 
articles  themselves  are  shrewd,  sensible,  honest,  and 
painstaking,  and  undoubtedly  deliberately  amusing  for 
the  most  part.  But,  though  they  are  well  worth  read- 
ing, both  for  the  views  advocated  and  for  the  style,  they 
are  not  such  as  to  make  or  mar  a  man's  reputation,  and 
no  great  appreciation  would  be  awarded  to  the  author 
by  the  average  reader. 

It  is  with  the  latter  we  must  concern  ourselves. 
Leaving  his  shorter  stories  out  of  the  question,  let  us 
devote  our  attention  to  those  upon  which  his  earlier 
reputation  is  based :  The  Yellowplush  Correspondence,  Some 

*"  I  really  don't  know  where  I  get  all  these  rascals  for  my  books. 
I  have  certainly  never  lived  with  such  people,"  Thackeray  said  to 
Mr.  J.  E.  Cooke. 


206         Milliam  flDafeepeace 

Passages  in  the  Life  of  Major  Gahagan,  Catherine,  A  Shabby 
Genteel  Story,  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,  The  Fitz-Boodle 
Papers,  including  Metis  Wives  and  The  Luck  of  Barry  Lyndon. 

Putting  aside  Major  Gahagan,  which  is  a  delightful 
extravaganza,  and  far  more  amusing  than  Munchausen, 
there  is  not  another  quite  pleasant  story  to  be  found. 

They  are  wonderfully  clever.  Their  literary  merit  is 
astonishing:  the  style  is  mature,  the  word-pictures  are 
delightful,  and  there  are  some  charming  touches,  and 
some  beautiful  passages  that  are  Thackerayesque  in  their 
tenderness;  but  their  predominant  feature  is  intelligence, 
and  when  has  the  great  reading  public  admired  a  book 
only  because  it  is  intellectual?  It  must  be  admitted  that 
the  public  is  right  not  to  admire  such,  for  it  is  a  truism 
that  a  story  suggesting  chiefly  the  cleverness,  or  the  wit, 
or  the  brilliancy  of  the  writer  is  not  a  complete  success — 
it  shows  there  is  a  something  wanting  in  the  story  itself. 
Readers  ask  more  than  this,  and  the  taste  that  demands 
that  the  writer's  genius  shall  not  be  thought  of  until  the 
book  is  laid  down,  finished,  is  quite  sound. 

All  the  books  are  clever.  Catherine  is  wonderful, 
Carlyle  quite  rightly  said ;  and  no  one  but  Fielding  and 
its  author  could  have  written  the  marvellous  Barry  Lyn- 
don: but  there  is  a  want  of  heart,  and  lack  of  tenderness, 
and  the  books  have  really  kept  their  position  by  virtue 
of  the  genius  that  created  them:  one  is  impressed  by 
the  author,  one  is  depressed  by  the  book. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  for  these  early  works 
Thackeray  drew  upon  his  own  unhappy  experiences ;  and 
these,  together  with  the  cynicism  that  all  clever  young 
men  affect,  give  his  stories  a  certain  harshness  that  makes 
them  compare  unfavourably  with  his  maturer  produc- 
tions. His  purpose  was  honest  enough:  he  fought 


LONDON:  PUNCH  OFFICE,  85,  FLEET  STREET. 


[Pn  ire  2s. 


TTbacfeera£  ant)  tbe  public  207 

against  snobbishness  and  vulgarity;  against  gambling, 
against  company-promoting  swindlers,  against  the  Jack 
Sheppard  class  of  novels  —  indeed,  against  everything 
that  did  not  appeal  to  him  as  simple  and  honourable. 
But  he  did  not  select  his  weapons  carefully;  he  fought 
with  the  button  off  the  foil,  and  a  /'  entrance.  It  may 
be  taken  as  an  axiom  that  all  the  principal  characters  in 
his  early  books  are  (more  or  less)  swindlers,  scoundrels, 
hypocrites,  or  fools.  The  briefest  examination  of  these 
writings  shown  it  to  have  been  so. 

Yellowplush,  who  is  taken  from  the  gutter,  sees  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  listen  at  key-holes,  or  read  his 
master's  letters,  pry  into  his  private  affairs,  or  do  a  hun- 
dred other  dirty  actions — he  has  no  more  than  a  swiftly 
passing  pang  of  remorse  when,  for  a  bank-note,  he  sells 
the  master,  who,  with  all  his  faults,  was  too  good  to  him. 
All  the  people  he  knows  do  things  of  this  sort,  and  he 
sees  no  particular  cause  for  shame. 

The  naturalness  of  the  Correspondence  is  its  greatest 
merit — perhaps  its  chief  fault  against  nature  is  that  so 
many  unpleasant  people  could  scarcely  be  found  together. 

In  the  farce  there  is  the  picture  of  the  Shum  family's 
wretched  life,  the  cowardly  husband,  the  bullying  wife, 
the  objectionable  daughter,  but  out  of  the  gloom  comes 
Altamont,  a  good  fellow,  and  the  rather  lovable  Mary. 
Look  at  the  actors  in  the  tragedy  —  for  tragedy  it 
is  undoubtedly:  the  scamp  Yellowplush,  the  sharper 
Blewitt,  the  silly  and  snobbish  Dawkins,  the  revengeful 
Lady  Griffin,  the  insignificant  Jemima,  the  terrible  Earl, 
and  Deuceace  himself,  card-sharper,  swindler,  fortune- 
hunter.  Only  the  foolish  Matilda  remains,  and  for  her 
loyalty  much  may  be  forgiven  her:  "My  Lord,  my  place 
is  with  him. ' ' 


208         'CGlilUam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfterap 

In  these  Papers  Thackeray  meant  to  draw  the  moral 
that  roguery  comes  to  a  bad  end,  but  he  overreached 
himself.  Deuceace  does  come  to  a  bad  end,  so  far  that 
is  right  enough,  but  the  retribution  that  falls  upon  him 
is  planned  by  his  own  father;  this  occasions  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  which  causes  the  sympathy  to  be  with  the 
swindler  until  the  end, — the  most  sensational  Thackeray 
ever  employed.  There  is  nothing  in  all  his  writings  so 
terrible. 

In  Catherine,  the  history  of  jail-birds,  told  by  one  of 
them,  we  do  not  look  for  virtuous  people.  Mrs.  Cat, 
Brock,  Galgenstein,  Thomas  Billings,  John  Hayes,  Mrs. 
Scare,  and  Ensign  Macshane,  in  their  several  ways,  are 
as  bad  as  bad  can  be — so  vicious,  indeed,  that  the  sym- 
pathy is  rather  with  the  murderess ;  in  such  company  she 
could  hardly  be  other  than  she  is. 

The  Shabby  Genteel  Story,  which  shows  distinct  signs  of 
growing  power,  presents  another  group  of  objectionable 
people.  It  opens  with  a  description  of  Margate  lodging- 
house  society,  and  concludes  with  a  mock  marriage,  into 
which  the  family  Cinderella,  a  loving,  trusting  girl,  is 
trapped.  Mr.  Gann,  a  ruined  tradesman,  drunk  three 
times  a  week  with  the  liquor  imbibed  at  the  "Bag  o' 
Nails";  Mrs.  Gann  and  her  two  daughters  by  a  first 
marriage;  the  Misses  Macarty,  shrews,  with  lady-like 
pretensions;  the  tuft-hunting  scoundrel  Brandon,  Tuft- 
hunt  himself,  and  the  blackguard  Cinqbars, — are  the 
dramatis  persona,  which  is  only  partially  brightened  by 
the  honest  but  vulgar  Fitch.  The  most  displeasing, 
though  not  the  least  clever,  of  all  the  tales. 

It  is  quite  a  relief  to  turn  to  The  Great  Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond, for  that  at  least  is  more  artistic  than  anything  he 


tlbacfeerag  an&  tbe  public  209 

had  then  written;  and  at  last  on  his  literary  horizon 
good  simple  people  begin  to  be  sighted,  though  they  are 
still  outnumbered  by  hypocrites  and  snobs.  There  is  a 
dreadful  Aunt  in  the  story,  and  a  marvellous  picture  of  a 
swindling  company-promoter.  But  pathos  and  growing 
tenderness  are  to  be  noted,  especially  in  the  handling 
of  Sam's  mother  and  wife;  and  the  death  of  a  child  is 
beautifully  and  reverently  described.  But  humour  is 
sadly  lacking  and,  in  spite  of  its  many  beauties — I  state 
it  trembling — I  am  afraid  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond  is 
dull. 

Fitz-Boodle,  however,  is  undoubtedly  a  humourist. 
In  his  Confessions  there  are  many  touches  that  suggest  the 
older  Thackeray.  He  is  a  good-hearted  scamp,  and  amus- 
ing enough.  His  love-affairs  are  well  told,  and  though 
Minna  Lowe  is  a  mean  little  wretch — let  us  hope  she  was 
forced  by  her  father  and  fiance",  scoundrels  both — yet 
Dorothea,  silly,  sweet  Dorothea,  and  that  sketch  for 
Blanche  Amori,  Ottilia — I  wonder  if  they  were  both 
drawn  from  Carlyle's  friend — are  pleasanter  and  more 
interesting.  They  are  all  three  very  real.  Most  of  us 
have  met  Dorothea  and  Ottilia,  though  perhaps  our 
Ottilias  have  not  over-eaten  themselves — some  of  us  have 
known  Minnas  too,  perhaps.  But  Fitz  cannot  be  for- 
given for  writing  those  scandalous  chronicles  of  his 
friends'  private  lives — Men  s  Wives.  Curiously  enough, 

it  is  the  last  one  of  these,  the 's  [Executioner  s]  Wife, 

which  has  never  been  reprinted  in  his  collected  works, 
the  story  of  a  heartless  coquette  and  of  a  brother's 
revenge,  that  seems  to  me  the  most  admirable.  The 
others  are  stories  of  mean  lives  without  any  redeeming 
sun-rays  to  enliven  the  surrounding  gloom.  The  scoun- 


210         William  /IDafeepeace  Ubacfeerav 

drel  Walker,  the  blackguard  Boroski,  the  humbug  Sir 
George,  the  foolish  Ravenswing  herself  (though  she 
improves  with  age),  the  dragon-like  Mrs.  Berry,  and  the 
selfish,  vain,  snobbish,  and  terribly  vulgar  Mrs.  Dennis 
Haggarty — the  history  of  Dennis  is  a  tragedy  second 
only  to  that  of  Deuceace, — are  so  many  people  whom 
we  would  rather  not  know,  and  of  whom  we  would  cer- 
tainly rather  not  read. 

And  now,  Barry  Lyndon! — the  greatest  of  all  these 
stories  and  the  first  in  which  the  author's  genius  shines 
unfettered. 

"In  that  strange  apologue"  {Jonathan  Wild],  Thack- 
eray^ wrote  in  one  of  the  lectures  on  the  Humourists,  "the 
author  takes  for  a  hero  the  greatest  rascal,  coward, 
traitor,  tyrant,  hypocrite,  that  his  wit  and  experience, 
both  large  in  this  matter,  could  enable  him  to  devise  or 
depict;  he  accompanies  this  villain  through  all  the 
transactions  of  his  life,  with  a  grinning  deference  and  a 
wonderful  mock  respect,  and  doesn't  leave  him  till  he 
is  dangling  at  the  gallows,  when  the  satirist  makes  him 
a  low  bow  and  wishes  the  scoundrel  good-day." 

This  is  what  Thackeray  has  done  in  Barry  Lyndon, 
only  he  lets  his  scoundrel  die  of  delirium  tremens  in  the 
nineteenth  year  of  his  residence  in  the  Fleet  Prison. 
The  stroke  of  genius  that  induced  him  to  make  Barry  tell 
his  own  adventures  in  all  good  faith,  places  the  story  on 
a  literary  plane  higher  even  than  that  of  Fielding's  novel. 
Not  so  good  or  so  pure  as  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond, 
but  how  much  grander  a  conception!  The  humour,  the 
satire,  the  remorseless  irony — read  the  speech  where 
Barry  defends  cheating  at  cards — the  pictures  of  life  pre- 
sented, the  minor  characters  depicted,  place  it  not  very 
far  below  Esmond  itself  in  the  list  of  Thackeray's  works. 


Ubacfeerap  ant>  tbe  public  211 

There  is  no  short  story  in  the  language  more  artistically 
beautiful  than  the  Princess's  Tragedy  * 

But  just  as  JonatJian  Wild  is  the  most  neglected  of 
Fielding's  works,  so  Barry  Lyndon  is  the  least  read  of  all 
Thackeray's.  Work  of  genius  though  it  be,  it  is  an 
unpleasant  story,  as  its  author  fully  realised. 

"Wherever  shines  the  sun,  you  are  sure  to  find  Folly 
basking  in  it.  Knavery  is  the  shadow  at  Folly's  heels," 
Thackeray  wrote  in  his  character  sketch  of  Captain  Rook 
and  the  Pigeon.  Yet  it  seems  as  if  he  had  not  quite 
grasped  the  fact  that  there  are  things  other  than  folly 
or  knavery  to  write  about,  and  that  a  surfeit  of  rogues 
has  an  unpleasant  after-effect. 

"Oh!  for  a  little  manly,  honest,  God-relying  sim- 
plicity, cheerful,  unaffected,  and  humble!"  Thackeray 
had  prayed  many  years  before,  in  one  of  his  earliest 
reviews ;  but  it  was  only  with  Vanity  Fair  that  he  began 
to  give  them. 

*This  was  suggested  by  an  episode  in  the  book,  now  little  known, 
entitled  L 'Empire,  ou  dix  ans  sous  Napoleon. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"VANITY   FAIR" 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"VANITY   FAIR" 

T  ET  the  cause  be  what  it  may,  the  undisputed  fact 
J — '  remains  that  in  1846  Thackeray  was  unknown  out- 
side literary  circles  and  his  own  intimate  friends.  Indeed, 
many  years  after  this  time  he  complained  to  Mr.  Fields 
that  he  was  nearly  forty  years  old  before  he  was  recog- 
nised in  Literature  as  belonging  to  a  class  of  writers  at 
all  above  the  orginary  magazinists  of  his  day.  "I  turned 
off  far  better  things  then,"  he  said,  "than  I  do  now,  and 
I  wanted  money  sadly  (my  parents  were  rich,  but 
respectable,  and  I  had  spent  all  my  guineas  in  my  youth) ; 
but  how  little  I  got  for  my  work !  It  makes  me  laugh  at 
what  the  Times  pays  me  now,  when  I  think  of  the  old 
days,  and  how  much  better  I  wrote  for  them  then,  and 
got  a  shilling  where  I  now  get  ten." 

Now  Thackeray  was  thirty-five  in  1846,  and  he  was 
undoubtedly  discontented  with  his  lot;  and,  seeing  his 
juniors  and  inferiors  pass  him  in  the  race  for  popularity 
and  fame,  he  thought  that  at  last  the  time  had  come  for 
him  to  exert  his  great  powers  to  make  his  name  a  house- 
hold word,  to  occupy  his  proper  place  at  the  head  of  his 
profession,  and  above  all,  to  make  money  to  lay  aside  for 
his  wife  and  children.  It  was  such  thoughts  as  these 
that  led,  early  in  January,  1847,  to  the  appearance  of 
the  first  number  of  Vanity  Fair. 

On  January  2  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Professor 
Aytoun : — 

215 


216         TKftilliam  /IDafeepeace 

"I  think  I  have  never  had  any  ambition  hitherto,  or 
cared  what  the  world  thought  my  work,  good  or  bad; 
but  now  the  truth  forces  itself  upon  me,  if  the  world  will 
once  take  to  admiring  Titmarsh,  all  his  guineas  will  be 
multiplied  by  ten.  Guineas  are  good.  I  have  got  chil- 
dren, only  ten  years  more  to  the  fore  say,  etc. ;  now  is 
the  time,  my  lad,  to  make  your  A  when  the  sun  at  length 
has  begun  to  shine.  Well,  I  think  if  I  can  make  a  push 
at  the  present  minute — if  my  friends  will  shout,  Tit- 
marsh  for  ever!  hurrah  for,  etc.,  etc., — I  may  go  up 
with  a  run  to  a  pretty  fair  place  in  my  trade,  and  be 
allowed  to  appear  before  the  public  among  the  first 
fiddles.  But  my  tunes  must  be  heard  in  the  streets,  and 
organs  must  grind  them.  Ha!  now  do  you  read  me? 

"Why  don't  Blackwood  give  me  an  article?  Because 
he  refused  the  best  story  I  ever  wrote?"  [The  Great 
Hoggarty  Diamond^  "Colburn  refused  the  present 
'Novel  without  a  Hero,'  and  if  any  man  at  Blackwood 's 
or  Colburn's,  and  if  any  man  since — fiddle-de-dee.  Upon 
my  word  and  honour  I  never  said  so  much  about  myself 
before ;  but  I  know  this,  if  I  had  the  command  of  Black- 
wood,  and  a  humouristical  person  like  Titmarsh  should 
come  up,  and  labour  hard  and  honestly  (please  God)  for 
ten  years,  I  would  give  him  a  hand.  Now  try,  like  a 
man,  revolving  these  things  in  your  soul,  and  see  if  you 

*Mrs.  Oliphant  has  spoken  of  Thackeray  in  her  book  on  William 
Blackwood  and  His  Sons  :  "About  the  same  time"  [December,  1839] 
"there  is  talk  in  one  of  Alexander's  letters  of  sending  back  a  bundle 
of  prose  and  verse  mingled,  written  by  Thackeray,  who  had  published 
The  Yellowplush  Papers.  I  believe  it  was  The  Irish  Sketch  Book. 
The  Sketches  were  not  in  those  days  considered  good  enough  for  the 
Magazine."  But  The  Irish  Sketch  Book  was  not  written  until  after 
the  visit  to  Ireland  in  1842.  A  friend  subsequently  wrote  introducing 
him,  and  Thackeray  offered  to  do  some  "gossiping"  articles — a  sort 
of  Roundabout  Paper ;  but  his  first  communication  was  neglected, 
and  he  never  wrote  again. 


la. 


PEN  AND  PENCIL  SKETCHES  OF  ENGLISH  SOCIETY, 


BY  W.   M.  THACKERAY, 

Author  of  "  The  Irish  Bkttch  Book  :"  "  Journey  from  Corthlll  to  Gmnd  Cairo:"  of  "  Jeames'i  Diary  • 
and  the  "Snob  Pap«r»"  in  Punch  ;  &c.  fcc. 


LONDON: 
PUBLISHED  AT  THE  PUNCH  OFFICE,  85,  FLEET  STREET, 

J.  ME.VZIES,  EDINBURGH  ;    J    M'LEOD,  GLASGOW  ;   J.  M'GLASUA,N,  DVBUR. 

1848. 

fliradburj  &  En  ni.  Pristcn.  WliUefrUn.] 


jfafr"  217 

can't  help  me.  .  .  .  And  if  I  can  but  save  a  little 
money,  by  the  Lord  I'll  try  and  keep  it. 

"Some  day,  when  less  selfish,  I  will  write  to  you 
about  other  matters  than  the  present  ego.  ...  I 
have  my  children  with  me,  and  am  mighty  happy  in  that 
paternal  character — preside  over  legs  of  mutton  com- 
fortably— go  to  church  at  early  morning  and  like  it — pay 
rates  and  taxes,  etc.,  etc.  Between  this  line  and  the 
above  a  man  has  brought  me  the  Times  on  the  Battle  of 
Life.  'Appy  Dickens !  But  I  love  Pickwick  and  Crum- 
mies too  much  to  abuse  this  great  man.  Aliquando 
bonus.  And  you,  young  man,  coming  up  in  the  world 
full  of  fight,  take  counsel  from  a  venerable  and  peaceful 
gladiator  who  has  stripped  for  many  battles.  Gad,  sir, 
this  caution  is  a  very  good  sign.  Do  you  remember  how 
complimentary  Scott  and  Goethe  were  ?  I  like  the  patri- 
archal air  of  some  people."* 

Some  ten  days  afterwards,  however,  Thackeray  deter- 
mined to  have  no  friendly  puff.  Let  Vanity  Fair  stand 
or  fall  on  its  own  merits;  his  pride  asserted  itself  in 
another  letter  to  Aytoun.f 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  the  other  matter  on  which 
I  unbosomed  myself  to  you,  and  withdraw  my  former 
letter.  Puffs  are  good  and  the  testimony  of  good  men ; 
but  I  don't  think  these  will  make  a  success  for  a  man, 
and  he  ought  to  stand  as  the  public  chooses  to  put  him, 

*Memoirs  of  Professor  Aytoun.    By  Sir  Theodore  Martin. 

•{Though  Thackeray  refused  all  extraneous  aid  for  himself,  he 
would  nevertheless  do  all  he  could  for  others,  as  the  following  extracts 
from  letters  to  Mr.  Bedingfield  show: — 

(i)  December  21,  1843.  "  I  shall  give  you  a  notice  in  Fraser  in 
the  February  number;  but  I  tell  you  it's  no  use." 

(ii)  November  — ,  1847.  "  Don't  be  displeased  at  my  not  reviewing 
you.  By  Jove,  I  have  not  time  to  do  half  what  I  ought  to  do,  and 
have  books  upon  books  on  my  table  at  this  minute — all  the  works  of 
private  friends  who  want  a  criticism.  Yours  distractedly,  W.  M.  T." 


2i8         TKnilliam  flDafeepeace 

I  will  try,  please  God,  to  do  my  best,  and  the  money  will 
come,  perhaps,  some  day!  Meanwhile  a  man  so  lucky 
as  myself  has  no  cause  to  complain.  So  let  all  purling 
alone,  though,  as  you  know,  I  am  glad  if  I  can  have, 
and  deserve  your  good  opinion.  The  women  like  Vanity 
Fair,  I  find,  very  much,  and  the  publishers  are  quite  in 
good  spirits  regarding  that  venture.  This  is  all  I  have 
to  say — in  the  solitude  of  midnight — with  a  quiet  cigar, 
and  the  weakest  gin  and  water  in  the  world,  ruminating 
over  a  child's  fall,  from  which  I  have  just  come,  having 
gone  as  chaperon  to  my  little  girls.  One  of  them  had 
her  hair  plaited  in  two  tails,  the  other  had  ringlets  and 
the  most  fascinating  bows  of  blue  ribbon.  It  was  very 
merry  and  likewise  sentimental.  We  went  in  a  fly 
quite  genteel,  and  law!  what  a  comfort  it  was  when  it 
was  over.  Adyou."* 

' '  I  wonder  whether  this  will  take,  the  publishers  accept 
it  and  the  world  read  it, ' '  Thackeray  said  when  he  began 
to  write  Vanity  Fair;  and  though  the  publishers  had 
accepted  it,  it  still  seemed  doubtful  if  the  world  would 
read.  The  earlier  numbers  failed  to  attract  attention, 
and  even  the  advisability  of  stopping  its  publication  was 
mooted;  but  fortunately,  later  in  the  year,  the  sale 
increasing  with  great  strides,  the  success  of  the  venture 
was  assured. 

There  has  been  much  speculation  as  to  what  caused 
the  change  from  failure  to  such  brilliant  success,  and 
many  reasons  have  been  suggested.  Some  will  have  it 
that  the  change  in  the  public  attitude  was  the  result  of 
an  article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  January,  1848; 
while  others  insist  that  the  attention  of  the  world  to  the 
merits  of  the  work  was  attracted  by  Currer  Bell's  eulogistic 

*Memoirs  of  Professor  Aytoun.    By  Sir  Theodore  Martin. 


fair"  219 

dedication  to  Thackeray  prefixed  to  the  second  edition 
of  Jane  Eyre.  Thackeray  himself  always  insisted  that 
it  was  the  success  of  his  first  Christmas  book,  Mrs. 
Perkyns*  Ball,  that  made  him  popular. 

No  doubt  the  review,  the  dedication  especially,  and 
the  Christmas  Book,  each  gave  an  impetus  to  the  sale  of 
the  novel,  but  I  think  the  most  probable  and  simple 
explanation  is  that  the  book  recommended  itself  by  the 
greater  interest  that  was  to  be  found  in  its  pages  as  it 
progressed ;  and  I  am  to  a  certain  extent  supported  in 
this  belief  by  a  letter  written  in  May  (1847)  by  Fitzger- 
ald: "Thackeray  is  progressing  greatly  in  his  line:  he 
publishes  a  novel  in  Nos. — Vanity  Fair — which  began 
dull  I  thought,  but  gets  better  every  number."  How- 
ever, not  every  one  found  the  earlier  parts  dull.  A 
friend  wrote  to  Thackeray,  after  two  or  three  numbers 
had  come  out:  "Don't  get  nervous  or  think  about  criti- 
cism or  trouble  yourself  about  the  opinions  of  friends; 
you  have  completely  beaten  Dickens  out  of  the  inner  cir- 
cle already;"  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  wrote  in  September 
(1847)  to  her  husband:  "I  brought  away  the  last  four 
numbers  of  Vanity  Fair,  and  read  one  of  them  during  the 
night.  Very  good  indeed,  beats  Dickens  out  of  the 
world." 

People  in  1847  were  accustomed  to  buy  their  fiction 
in  green-covered  monthly  parts,  which  overflowed  with 
exaggerated  humour  and  extravagant  pathos;  or  in  pink- 
covered  numbers,  containing  brilliantly  inaccurate  and 
thoroughly  enjoyable  descriptions  of  Irish  or  army  life ; 
and  not  unnaturally  they  did  not  at  first  take  kindly  to 
the  less  exciting,  though  far  more  intellectual  and  artistic 
sketches  of  English  society,  that  were  offered  in  the 
yellow  wrappers.  Yet  even  during  the  time  of  the  great- 


220         THlilliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfterap 

est  success  of  Vanity  Fair,  only  about  six  thousand  copies 
of  a  number  were  sold,  while  the  circulation  of  the  parts 
of  Dickens's  novels  was  frequently  as  much  as  twenty  or 
twenty-five  thousand. 

But  though  Vanity  Fair  may  not  have  appealed  to  the 
general  public  as  Dickens  and  Lever  did,  yet  it  is  plain 
that  among  the  literary  class,  and  in  what  is  known  as 
"Society,"  Thackeray  had  now  established  a  foremost 
place.  Such  high-class  journals  as  the  Spectator  specially 
praised  the  novel  as  it  was  coming  out  in  serial  parts. 
The  following  interesting  letter  appeared  in  a  recent  issue 
of  that  journal  (Spectator,  January  14,  1899),  and  quite 
bears  out  what  has  been  said  as  to  the  effect  produced 
by  Vanity  Fair  on  the  more  educated  and  termed  portions 
of  the  community: — 

THACKERAY  AND  THE  "SPECTATOR." 
[To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR."] 

SIR, — May  I,  as  an  old  lady  entitled  to  be  reminiscent 
and  garrulous,  "bestow  my  tediousness  upon  you"  in  a 
little  anecdote  which  relates  to  the  Spectator?  In  1847 
we  were  living  in  Paris  in  the  Rue  Neuve  de  Berri.  One 
morning  I  saw  my  father  (Admiral — then  Captain — 
Wormeley)  putting  the  Spectator  into  his  coat-pocket. 
"Oh!  father,"  I  cried,  "please  don't  take  it  away.  It 
only  came  this  morning."  "Yes,  yes,  my  dear,"  he 
answered;  "I  must  take  it  at  once  to  Mrs.  Carmichael 
Smyth.  It  has  a  nice  review  of  her  son's  serial  in  it. 
Only  yesterday  she  was  lamenting  to  me  that  no  notice 
seemed  to  be  taken  by  the  Press  of  William's  book, 
while  so  much  was  being  said  of  Dickens's  new  novel, 
and,  for  her  part,  she  did  not  see  that  Dombey  atid  Son 


fair"  221 

was  more  worthy  of  notice  than  Vanity  Fair"  They  were 
both  coming  out  as  serials, — Vanity  Fair  in  yellow  covers, 
Dombey  in  green. 

I  am,  Sir,  etc., 

E.  W.  LATIMER. 

714,  PARK  AVENUE,  BATIMORE,  MARYLAND, 
December  y>th. 

It  is  quite  conceivable  that  Currer  Bell's  dedication, 
dated  December  21,  1847,  may  have  hastened  the  general 
recognition  of  the  genius  of  the  Snobographer ;  for 
although  now  Vanity  Fair  is  held  to  be  the  greater  work, 
yet  we  have  it  on  the  authority  of  Sara  Coleridge  that  it 
was  not  so  popular,  even  in  1847,  as  Jane  Eyre. 

The  identity  of  Currer  Bell  had  not  then  been  revealed, 
and  many  were  the  guesses  as  to  who  the  writer  could 
be.  In  October,  1848,  Thackeray  wrote  to  Mrs.  Brook- 
field,  saying: — 

"Old  Dilke  of  the  Athenceum  vows  that  Procter  (Barry 
Cornwall)  and  his  wife  between  them  wrote  Jane  Eyre,  and 
when  I  protest  ignorance,  says,  'Pooh!  you  know  who 
wrote  it;  you  are  the  deepest  rogue  in  England,  etc.' ;  I 
wonder  whether  it  can  be  true?  It  is  just  possible;  and 
then,  what  a  singular  circumstance  is  the  cross-fire  of  the 
two  dedications  (Jane  Eyre  to  Thackeray,  Vanity  Fair  to 
Barry  Cornwall"). 

I  quote  part  of  this  dedication,  which  is  very  interest- 
ing still,  even  if  only  on  account  of  the  misdirected 
eulogy  it  contains: — 

"There  is  a  man  in  our  own  days  whose  words  are 
not  framed  to  tickle  delicate  ears :  who,  to  my  thinking 
comes  before  the  great  ones  of  society — much  as  the  son 
of  Imlah  comes  before  the  throned  Kings  of  Judah  and 


222         William  flDafcepeace  Ubacfcerag 

Israel ;  and  who  speaks  truth  as  deep,  with  a  power  as 
prophet-like  and  as  vital — a  mien  as  dauntless  and  as 
daring.  Is  the  satirist  of  Vanity  Fair  admired  in  high 
places?  I  cannot  tell;  but  I  think  if  some  of  those 
amongst  whom  he  hurls  the  Greek  fire  of  his  sarcasm, 
and  over  whom  he  flashes  the  levin  brand  of  his  denuncia- 
tion, were  to  take  his  warnings  in  time,  they  or  their 
seed  might  yet  escape  a  fatal  Ramoth-Gilead. 

"Why  have  I  alluded  to  this  man?  I  have  alluded 
to  him,  Reader,  because  I  think  I  see  in  him  an  intellect 
profounder  and  more  unique  than  his  contemporaries 
have  yet  recognised ;  because  I  regard  him  as  the  first 
social  regenerator  of  the  day — as  the  very  master  of  that 
working  corps  who  would  restore  to  rectitude  the 
warped  system  of  things;  because  I  think  no  commen- 
tator on  his  writings  has  yet  found  the  comparison  that 
suits  him,  the  terms  which  rightly  characterise  his  talent. 
They  say  he  is  like  Fielding:  they  talk  of  his  wit, 
humour,  comic  powers.  He  resembles  Fielding  as  an 
eagle  does  a  vulture:  Fielding  could  stoop  on  carrion, 
but  Thackeray  never  does.  His  wit  is  bright,  his  humour 
attractive,  but  both  bear  the  same  relation  to  his  serious 
genius  that  lambent  steel  lightning  playing  under  the 
edge  of  the  summer  cloud  does  to  the  electric  death- 
spark  hid  in  its  womb.  Finally,  I  have  alluded  to  Mr. 
Thackeray  because  to  him — if  he  will  accept  the  tribute 
of  a  total  stranger — I  have  dedicated  this  second  edition 
of  Jane  Eyre. ' ' 

In  the  Correspondence  of  Abraham  Hayward  it  has  been 
told  how,  when  a  few  numbers  of  Vanity  Fair  had  ap- 
peared, it  was  thought  that  Mr.  Hayward  might  consent 
to  review  them  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  He  was  very 
good-natured  about  it,  but  happened  to  be  busied  about 


jfair"  223 

other  things,  and  fancied  he  could  not  -  undertake  it. 
Mrs.  Procter,  however,  kindly  undertook  to  mark  the 
passages  which  might  be  usefully  quoted,  and  Hayward 
thereupon  consented  and  wrote  a  review  upon  the  basis 
furnished  by  Mrs.  Procter,  and  "the  review — because 
praising  a  work  really  adorable  and  then  only  imperfectly 
known  to  the  general  public — had  an  immense  effect, 
and  accelerated  the  recognition  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  repu- 
tation and  power." 

Although  I  cannot  speak  from  actual  knowledge,  I  am 
inclined  to  doubt  the  immense  effect  of  the  review,  for 
this  effect  would  only  be  produced  amongst  the  readers 
of  the  quarterly,  who  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  cul- 
tured class;  and  even  the  readers  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review  itself  are  not  legion.  Again,  the  article  appeared 
in  January,  1848,  when  more  than  half  the  book  had 
already  appeared,  and  when,  I  think,  the  commercial 
success  of  the  novel  had  been  established. 

But  even  while  objecting  that  too  much  stress  has 
been  laid  upon  the  great  help  that  the  article  rendered 
to  the  success  of  the  book,  I  willingly  admit  the  service 
Mr.  Hayward  did  for  the  reputation  of  the  author,  and 
that  the  article  is  fair  enough  except  in  parts,  where  the 
reviewer  seems  to  have  been  afraid  that  his  enthusiasm 
would  run  away  with  his  pen,  and  has  endeavoured  to 
steady  himself  by  setting  to  work  to  discover  imaginary 
faults.  The  review  opened  as  follows:  "Full  many  a 
valuable  truth  has  been  sent  undulating  through  the  air 
by  men  who  have  lived  and  died  unknown.  At  the 
present  moment  the  rising  generation  are  supplied  with 
the  best  of  their  mental  aliment  by  writers  whose  names 
are  a  dead  letter  to  the  mass;  and  among  the  most 
remarkable  of  these  is  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  alias 


224         William  flDafeepeace 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  author  of  The  Irish  Sketch 
Book,  of  A  Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo,  oljeames's 
Diary,  of  The  Snob  Papers  in  Punch,  of  Vanity  Fair,  etc., 
etc.,"  all  of  which  works  the  reviewer  criticises,  dealing, 
with  Vanity  Fair,  as  far  as  it  had  gone  (the  first  eleven 
numbers).  And  the  article  concluded:  "A  writer  with 
such  a  pen  as  Mr.  Thackeray's  is  an  acquisition  of  real 
and  high  value  in  our  literature.  High  life,  middle  life, 
and  low  life  are  (or  very  soon  will  be)  pretty  nearly  the 
same  to  him:  he  has  fancy  as  well  as  feeling:  he  can 
laugh  or  cry  without  grimacing:  he  can  skim  the  surface, 
and  he  can  penetrate  to  the  core.  Let  the  public  give 
him  encouragement,  and  let  him  give  himself  time,  and 
we  can  fearlessly  prophesy  that  he  will  soon  become  one 
of  the  acknowledged  heads  of  his  own  peculiar  walk  of 
literature." 

"Vanity  Fair"  said  the  Edinburgh  Reviewer,  "is  as 
sure  of  immortality  as  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  modern 
novels  are  sure  of  annihilation." 

Even  to  this  day  a  general  belief  exists  that  Vanity 
Fair  was  hawked  round  the  town,  and  offered  and 
rejected  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  before  Messrs. 
Bradbury  &  Evans,  the  proprietors  and  publishers  of 
Punch,  brought  it  out  in  twenty  monthly  parts. 

This  view  is  absolutely  erroneous.  All  the  evidence 
I  have  collected  points  to  an  entirely  different  conclu- 
sion. Mr.  Trollope  says,  "We  are  aware  that  the 
monthly  nurses  of  periodical  literature  did  not  at  first 
smile  on  the  effort.  The  proprietors  of  magazines  did 
not  see  their  way  to  undertake  Vanity  Fair,  and  the  pub- 
lishers are  said  to  have  generally  looked  shy  upon  it." 
Mr.  Marzials  tells  us  that  "  Vanity  Fair  itself.  Vanity  Fair, 
one  of  the  unquestioned  masterpieces  of  English  litera- 


jfatr"  225 

ture,  was  rejected  by  Colburn's  Magazine."  Even  Mrs. 
Ritchie  says,  in  her  Biographical  Introduction  to  the 
novel,  "One  has  heard  of  the  journeys  which  the  manu- 
script made  to  various  publishers'  houses  before  it  could 
find  one  ready  to  undertake  the  venture,  and  how  long 
its  appearance  was  delayed  by  various  doubts  and  hesita- 
tions." 

On  the  other  hand  Mr.  Vizetelly,  who  saw  a  great  deal 
of  Thackeray  about  this  time,  has  told  what  I  take  to  be 
the  true  tale.  "The  hawking  about  of  Vanity  Fair,"  he 
said,  in  the  Glances  Back  Through  Seventy  Years,  "of 
course  presupposed  that  the  manuscript  was  complete, 
and  was  submitted  in  this  state  to  the  half  score  fatuous 
fools  who  declined  it  with  thanks,  but  I'm  positive  that, 
when  arrangements  were  made  with  Messrs.  Bradbury  & 
Evans  for  the  publication  of  the  work,  with  no  further 
knowledge  on  their  part  of  its  nature  than  could  be 
gleaned  from  Mr.  Thackeray  during  a  brief  interview, 
nothing  beyond  number  one  was  written.  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever  that  the  publishers  of  Vanity  Fair  bought 
it — like  most  works  by  known  authors  are  purchased — 
solely  on  its  writer's  then  reputation,  which  his  Snobs  of 
England  in  Punch  had  greatly  extended."  And  then 
Mr.  Vizetelly  supports  his  statement  by  adding  the  fol- 
lowing passage:  "One  afternoon,  when  he  [Thackeray] 
called  in  Peterborough  Court  [at  Vizetelly's  offices]  he 
had  a  small  brown  paper  parcel  with  him,  and  opened  it 
to  show  me  his  two  careful  drawings  for  the  page  plates 
to  the  first  number  of  Vanity  Fair.  Tied  up  with  them 
was  the  manuscript  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  book,  of 
which  he  had  several  times  spoken  to  me,  referring  to 
the  quaint  character  that  Chiswick  Mall — within  a  stone's 
throw  of  which  I  was  then  living — still  retained.  His 


226         William  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfceras 

present  intention,  he  told  me,  was  to  see  Bradbury  & 
Evans,  and  offer  the  work  to  them.  ...  In  little 
more  than  half  an  hour  Thackeray  again  made  his  appear- 
ance, and,  with  a  beaming  face,  gleefully  informed  me 
that  he  had  settled  the  business.  'Bradbury  &  Evans,' 
he  said,  'accepted  so  readily  that  I  am  deuced  sorry  I 
didn't  ask  them  for  another  tenner.  I  am  certain  they 
would  have  given  it.'  He  then  explained  that  he  had 
named  fifty  guineas  per  part,  including  the  two  sheets  of 
letter-press,  a  couple  of  etchings,  and  the  initials  at  the 
commencement  of  the  chapters.  He  reckoned  the  text, 
I  remember,  at  no  more  than  five-and-twenty  shillings  a 
page,  the  two  etchings  at  six  guineas  each,  while  as  for 
the  few  initials  at  the  beginning  of  the  chapters,  he  threw 
those  in.  Such  was  Mr.  Thackeray's  own  estimate  of  his 
commercial  value  as  an  author  and  engraver,  A.D.  1846. 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  after  the  publication  com- 
menced much  of  the  remainder  of  the  work  was  written 
under  pressure  for  and  from  the  printer,  and  not  infre- 
quently the  first  instalment  of  'copy'  needed  to  fill  the 
customary  thirty-two  pages  was  penned  while  the 
printer's  boy  was  waiting  in  the  hall  at  Young  Street." 

This  proves  Mr.  Trollope's  statement  to  be  entirely 
inaccurate,  and  I  will  now  give  another  extract  from  Mr. 
Taylor,  that  corroborates  Mr.  Vizetelly  arid  further 
points  out  that  Mr.  Marzial's  remark  should  be  modified 
(and  this  too  in  spite  of  the  sentence  in  Thackeray's  let- 
ter to  Professor  Aytoun). 

"Some  time  before"  [1846],  Mr.  Taylor  wrote  in  his 
Life  of  Thackeray ,  "he,  Thackeray,  had  sketched  some 
chapters  entitled  Pencil  Sketches  of  English  Society  which 
he  had  offered  to  the  late  Mr.  Colburn  for  insertion  in 
The  New  Monthly  Magazine.  It  formed  a  portion  of  a 


TAILPIECE. 
From  "  Vanity  Fair." 


"IDanfts  jf air"  227 

continuous  story,  of  a  length  not  yet  determined,  and 
was  rejected  by  Mr.  Colburn  after  consideration.  The 
papers  which  Mr.  Thackeray  had  previously  contributed 
to  The  New  Monthly  were  chiefly  slight  comic  sketches 
and  perhaps  the  least  favourable  specimens  of  his  pow- 
ers. They  were  indeed  not  superior  to  the  common  run 
of  magazine  papers,  and  were  certainly  not  equal  to  his 
contributions  to  Fraser.  In  fact,  as  a  contributor  to  The 
New  Monthly,  he  had  achieved  no  remarkable  success, 
and  his  papers  appear  to  have  been  little  in  demand 
there.  Happily  the  author  of  Pencil  Sketches  of  English 
Society,  though  suspending  his  projected  work,  did  not 
abandon  it.  He  saw  in  its  opening  chapters — certainly 
not  the  best  part  of  the  story  when  completed — the 
foundations  of  a  work  which  was  to  secure  him  at  last  a 
fame  among  contemporary  writers  in  his  own  proper 
name.  The  success  of  Mr.  Dickens's  shilling  monthly 
parts  suggested  to  him  to  make  it  the  commencement  of 
a  substantive  work  of  fiction,  to  be  published  month  by 
month,  with  illustrations  by  the  author." 

When  he  offered  it  to  Colburn  he  had  not  even 
thought  of  the  now  famous  title,  which  suddenly  occurred 
to  him  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  "I  jumped  out  of 
bed,"  he  told  Miss  Perry,  "and  ran  three  times  round 
my  room,  uttering  as  I  went :  '  Vanity  Fair!  Vanity  Fair! 
Vanity  Fair!'  ' 

Before  Vanity  Fair  was  finished  Thackeray  had 
become  a  personage,  and  was  in  his  proper  place,  as  one 
of  the  foremost  men  of  the  day.  He  was  no  longer 
dependent  on  Fraser  and  Punch  for  his  livelihood:  he 
stood  forward  as  a  great  novelist,  the  equal  of  the  great 
humourists  whom  he  so  much  admired. 


228         'GdUliam  /iDafcepeace 

Writing  on  May  4,  Fitzgerald  observed:  "He  is 
become  a  great  man,  and  I  am  told  goes  to  Holland 
House  and  Devonshire  House,  and  for  some  reason  or 
another  will  not  write  a  word  to  me.  But  I  am  sure  this 
is  not  because  he  is  asked  to  Holland  House."  And  a 
couple  of  months  later  he  wrote:  "Thackeray  is  a  great 
man,  goes  to  Devonshire  House,  etc.,  and  his  book  (which 
is  capital)  is  read  by  the  great,  and  will,  I  hope,  do 
them  good."  "Thackeray  is  winning  great  social  suc- 
cess, dining  at  the  Academy,  Sir  Robert  Peel's,  etc.," 
another  old  friend,  Monckton  Milnes,  wrote  in  May, 
1849.  "I  doubt  whether  he  will  be  much  the  happier 
for  it,  though  I  think  people  generally  are  for  satisfied 
ambition." 

Now  Thackeray  was  always  of  a  sensitive  disposition, 
and  the  applause  was  to  him  a  glorious  stimulant;  just 
the  thing  that  he  had  been  wanting  for  thirteen  years, 
and  which,  now  he  had  obtained  it,  did  not  make  him 
content  to  rest  upon  his  laurels,  but  urged  him  on  and 
on  to  struggle  for  yet  greater  honours.  He  became  a 
lion,  and  remained  a  lion  till  the  end  of  his  life.  He 
went  everywhere,  and  saw  everything.  "There  is  no 
more  dangerous  or  stupefying  position  for  a  man  in  life 
than  to  be  a  cock  of  small  society,"  he  has  written. 
"It  prevents  his  ideas  from  growing,  it  renders  him  intol- 
erably conceited.  A  twopenny-halfpenny  Caesar,  a 
Brummagem  dandy,  a  coterie  philosopher  or  wit,  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  an  ass ;  and,  in  fine,  I  lay  it  down  as 
an  axiom  that  it  is  good  for  a  man  to  live  where  he  can 
meet  his  betters,  intellectual  and  social."  He  followed 
his  own  advice  and  went  everywhere — Holland  House, 
Sir  Robert  Peel's,  Devonshire  House,  Lord  Lans- 
downe's,  Royal  Academy  banquets,  Lady  Waldegrave's, 


jfafr"  229 

Rothschild's,  etc.,  to  balls,  dinners,  and  receptions, 
indiscriminately.  He  liked  society;  he  felt  quite  at 
home  in  it,  and,  as  a  well-bred  gentleman,  liked  to  meet 
his  peers ;  but  he  never  became  conceited  or  vain,  and  to 
the  end  of  his  life  was  amused  in  his  quiet  way  at  the 
idea  of  being  a  great  man.  "I  was  going  to  send  you  a 
letter  the  other  day  from  a  sculptor  who  wants  to  make 
my  bust;  think  of  that,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend  of  his. 

"Lady  C ,   beautiful,   serene,   stupid  old  lady:  she 

asked,  'Isn't  that  the  great  Mr.  Thackeray?'  Oh,  my 
stars!  think  of  that,"  he  wrote  later.  And  in  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Brookfield  from  Cambridge  in  1850,  he  said,  "I 
think  William"  [Brookfield]  "is  a  little  disappointed 
that  I  have  not  been  made  enough  a  lion  of,  whereas  my 
timid  nature  trembles  before  such  honours,  and  my 
vanity  would  be  to  go  through  life  as  a  gentleman — as  a 
Major  Pendennis — you  have  hit  it.  I  believe  I  never  do 
think  about  my  public  character,  and  certainly  didn't 
see  the  gyps,  waiters,  and  under-graduates  whispering  in 
hall,  as  your  William  did,  or  thought  he  did." 

Perhaps  he  wasted  too  much  time  in  this  way,  and 
Carlyle  was  right  enough  when  he  surmised  that  the 
course  Thackeray  had  got  into,  since  he  had  taken  to 
cultivating  dinner-eating  in  fashionable  houses,  was  not 
salutary  discipline  for  work.  But  on  the  other  hand, 
society  was  useful  and  necessary  to  him.  "A  social 
painter  must  be  of  the  world  which  he  depicts,  and 
native  to  the  manners  he  portrays,"  he  wrote,  when 
comparing  the  accuracy  of  Leech's  drawings  with  the 
many  mistakes  of  Gilray's^  "If  I  don't  go  out  and 
mingle  in  society,  I  can't  write,"  he  once  wrote  to  Mr. 
Bedingfield's  mother;  and  this  was  true,  enough,  for  just 
as  Dickens  portrays  the  lower  classes,  so  was  Thackeray 


230         William  flDafcepeace 

\ 

the  novelist  of  the  higher  classes.  Even  in  his  letters 
are  numerous  references  to  the  use  to  which  he  put  his 
social  opportunities.  He  makes  a  speech  at  the  Library 
Fund  Dinner  at  which  he  breaks  down.  "Of  what  I 
said  I  have  not  the  smallest  idea,"  he  wrote,  "The  dis- 
comfiture will  make  a  good  chapter  for  Pendennis" ;  or 
he  goes  to  a  "Sybarite  repast,"  where  he  "saw  a  chap- 
ter or  two  of  Pendennis  in  some  of  them"  [the  guests]; 
and  so  on. 

Candid  friends  hinted  that  he  was  becoming  a  tuft- 
hunter. 

"Mr.  Thackeray  has  said  more,  and  more  effect- 
ively, about  snobs  and  snobbism  than  any  other  man," 
Harriet  Martineau  has  written;  "and  yet  his  frittered 
life,  and  his  obedience  to  the  call  of  the  great,  are  the 
observed  of  all  observers.  As  it  is  so,  so  it  must  be; 
but  'O,  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of  it !'  Great  and  unusual 
allowance  is  to  be  made  in  his  case,  I  am  aware;  but 
this  does  not  lessen  the  concern  occasioned  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  one  after  another  of  the  aristocracy  of  nature 
making  the  Ko-to  to  the  aristocracy  of  accident." 

"Thackeray  had  grown  a  little  bias/,"  Sir  Frederick 
Pollock  wrote  in  1849;  anc^  some  years  later:  "Thack- 
eray .  .  .  after  he  became  famous,  liked  no  subject 
so  well"  [as  himself  and  his  books],  and  this,  too,  after 
Thackeray  had  complained — humourously,  I  admit — to 
Mr.  Brookfield  that  at  a  dinner  at  the  "Star  and  Garter" 
with  the  Strutts  and  Romillys  they  talked  about  Vanity 
Fair  and  Pendennis  almost  incessantly,  though  he  declared 
he  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  at  least  ten  times,  but 
they  would  not  let  him.  Very  probably  these  people 
who  complained  of  Thackeray's  conversation  turning  on 


"Danfts  jfair"  231 

his  books  were  the  very  people  who  would  not  permit 
the  subject  to  be  changed. 

Compare  the  following  extract  from  Macaulay's  diary 
(February  12,  1849):  "I  dined  at  Lady  Charlotte  Lind- 
say's with  Hallam  and  Kinglake.  I  am  afraid  that  I 
talked  too  much  about  my  book.  Yet  really  the  fault 
was  not  mine.  People  would  introduce  the  subject. 
I  will  be  more  guarded ;  yet  how  difficult  it  is  to  hit  the 
right  point !  To  turn  the  conversation  might  look  un- 
gracious and  affected." 

And  now  listen  to  old  Isaac  Disraeli:  "Men  of  genius 
have  often  been  accused  of  imaginary  crimes.  Their 
very  eminence  attracts  the  lie  of  calumny,  which  tradi- 
tion often  conveys  beyond  possibility  of  refutation." 

Remember  the  old  libel,  that  Thackeray  had  drawn 
Currer  Bell  in  "Becky  Sharp,"  and  in  revenge  she  had 
portrayed  him  in  ' '  Rochester. ' '  Well  might  he  exclaim,  in 
a.  Roundabout  Paper,  "Good  gracious!  how  do  lies  begin?" 

But  to  return  to  Thackeray  and  his  friends. 

Fitzgerald  at  first  seems  to  have  noticed  no  change  in 
him.  "I  have  seen  Thackeray  three  or  four  times,"  he 
wrote.  "He  is  just  the  same.  All  the  world  admires 
Vanity  Fair,  and  the  author  is  courted  by  dukes  and 
duchesses  and  wits  of  both  sexes."  But  in  the  follow- 
ing year  he  remarked:  "Thackeray  is  in  such  a  great 
world  that  I  am  afraid  of  him ;  he  gets  tired  of  me,  and 
we  are  content  to  regard  each  other  at  a  distance."  But 
though,  as  the  years  passed,  the  friends  saw  less  of  each 
other,  their  love  never  diminished. 

Thackeray  had  some  enemies — who  among  the  for- 
tunate has  not?  Has  ever  a  successful  man  of  genius 
gone  through  the  world  without  stirring  up  angry  feel- 
ings, or  unconsciously  rousing  feelings  of  jealousy? 


232         "CdUltam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeera£ 

"Who  has  no  enemies  shall  know  no  friends, 
'A  real  good  chap,'  and  there  it  ends." 

Arcedeckne  (supposed  to  be  the  prototype  of ' '  Foker' ') 
especially  seems  to  have  disliked  him.  At  Epsom,  on  a 
Derby  Day,  he  warned  Jeaffreson:  "As  you  ain't  a  swell 
you'd  better  steer  clear  of  Thack  for  a  little  time,  for 
when  I  saw  him  and  gave  him  the  'Hullo,  Thack!'  he 
was  walking  with  a  lord."  At  this  race-meeting  Thack- 
eray lost  his  gold  repeater  and  Jeaffreson  had  his  watch 
stolen,  so  Arcedeckne  may  have  felt  himself  avenged. 

But  Thackeray  never  did  desert  his  older  friends,  and 
the  more  strictly  intellectual  and  artistic  society  of  earlier 
days.  We  know  how  he  dined  at  Macready's  house  to 
meet  Sir  T.  Wilson,  Panizzi,  Landseer,  and  others,  and 
at  Foster's,  where  he  saw  Macready,  Rintoul,  Kenyon, 
Procter,  Kinglake,  Alfred  Tennyson  and  Brookfield,  and 
how  Macready  dined  with  Thackeray  and  met  the  Ken- 
yons,  the  Procters,  Reeve,  Villiers,  Evans,  and  Stanfield, 
and  saw  Miss  Sartoris,  S.  C.  Danse,  White,  and  Gold- 
smith in  the  evening. 

He  was  quite  aware  of  the  charge  of  tuft-hunting  that 
was  brought  against  him.  "To  know  young  noblemen 
and  brilliant  and  notorious  town-bucks  and  leaders  of 
fashion  has  this  great  disadvantage,"  he  wrote  in  Mr. 
Brown  on  Friendship,  "that  if  you  talk  about  them  or  are 
seen  with  them  much,  you  offend  all  your  friends  of 
middle  life.  It  makes  men  envious  to  see  their  acquaint- 
ance better  off  than  themselves ; ' '  and  of  course  Thackeray 
had  to  pay  the  inevitable  price  for  his  social  popularity — 
the  loss  of  some  of  his  friends  of  early  life.  "I  like 
what  are  called  Bohemians  and  fellows  of  that  sort,"  he 
told  Mr.  J.  E.  Cooke.  "I  have  seen  all  sorts  of  society — 
dukes,  duchesses,  lords  and  ladies,  authors,  actors,  and 


Jfair"  233 

painters — and  taken  altogether  I  think  I  like  painters 
the  best,  and  Bohemians  generally.  They  are  more 
natural  and  unconventional:  they  wear  their  hair  on 
their  shoulders  if  they  want,  and  dress  picturesquely  and 
carelessly."  That  is  not  like  the  language  of  a  tuft- 
hunter,  nor  is  the  following  language  likely  to  come  from 
an  idolater  of  rank:  "When  I  see  these  magnificent 
dandies  yawning  out  of  White's  or  caracolling  in  the 
Park,  I  like  to  think  that  Brummell  was  the  greatest  of 
them  all,  and  that  Brummell's  father  was  a  footman." 

But  nevertheless  he  thoroughly  admired  ihej'e  ne  sats 
quoi  that  marks  the  gentleman.  "They"  [the  Kickle- 
burys]  "are  travelling  with  Mr.  Bloundell,  who  was  a 
gentleman  once  and  still  retains  about  him  some  faint 
odour  of  that  time  of  bloom."  "It  is  true  .  .  .  poor 
Plantagenet"  [Gaunt]  "is  only  an  idiot  ...  a 
zany,  .  .  .  and  yet  you  see  somehow  that  he  is  a 
gentleman."  These  are  among  the  lines  that  Thackeray 
has  written,  expressive  of  the  high  value  he  placed  on  good 
breeding.  "No  doubt  a  man  may  be  the  descendant  of 
eleven  earls,  and  yet  be  a  pitifully  mean  creature,"  he 
once  said  to  Mr.  Jeaffreson;  "all  the  same  for  that,  I 
am  of  opinion  that  it  takes  three  generations  to  make  a 
gentleman."  But  a  man  may  like  to  be  in  the  company 
of  gentlemen  without  being  a  snob ! 

Thackeray  had  a  spiteful  enemy  in  Dr.  Gordon  Hake, 
who  treated  him  very  unjustly  in  his  Memoirs.  "He 
could  never  realise  the  independent  feelings  of  those  who 
happen  to  be  born  to  fortune — a  thing  which  a  man  of 
genius  should  be  able  to  do  with  ease,"  the  Doctor 
wrote.  "Thackeray,  as  if  under  the  impression  that  the 
party  was  invited  to  look  at  him,  thought  it  necessary  to 
make  a  figure  and  attract  attention  during  the  dessert, 


234         William  /iDafeepeace  Z£bacfcera2 

by  telling  stories  and  more  than  half  acting  them:  the 
aristocratic  party  listening,  but  appearing  little  amused. 
Borrow  knew  better  how  to  behave  in  good  company, 
and  kept  quiet,  though  doubtless  he  felt  his  name." 
Borrow  may  have  known  how  to  behave  in  good  com- 
pany, but  he  certainly  never  learnt  to  behave  elsewhere. 
For  instance,  he  asked  a  simple,  unpretending  woman, 
who  said  to  him,  "Oh,  Mr.  Borrow,  I  have  read  your 
books  with  so  much  pleasure,"  "Pray  what  books  do 
you  mean,  madam — my  account  books?"  and  when  Miss 
Strickland  expressed  a  wish  to  send  him  a  copy  of  her 
Queens  of  England,  "For  Heaven's  sake  don't,  madam; 
I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  them";  and  then, 
turning  to  a  friend,  remarked,  "What  a  damned  fool  that 
woman  is!"  No,  I  do  not  think,  in  spite  of  Dr.  Hake, 
that  Thackeray  could  have  learnt  much  of  the  proprieties 
from  Borrow. 

Perhaps  these  dislikes  may  be  explained  away  by  the 
fact  that  Thackeray  had  some  contempt  for  dull  persons. 
"Stupid  people,"  he  wrote,  "who  do  not  know  how  to 
laugh,  are  always  pompous  and  self-conceited,  i.e. 
bigoted,  i.e.  cruel,  i.e.  ungentle,  uncharitable,  unchristian." 

However,  the  contrary  evidence  is  overwhelming. 

Major  D declared  that  "perhaps  no  man  was  ever 

so  improved  by  success' ' ;  Albert  Smith  insisted  that 
Thackeray  was  a  very  jolly  fellow,  and  no  "High  Art 
about  him";  and  similar  testimony  is  borne  by  Dr. 
John  Browne,  J.  E.  Cooke,  Mrs.  Kemble,  Fields,  Reed, 
James  Payn,  Dr.  Merriman,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  a  great 
number  of  other  men  and  women  of  all  classes  of  those 
who  met  him. 

"What  I  saw  of  Thackeray  impressed  me  with  his 
gentleness  and  charity,"  Mr.  John  Hollingshead  has 


tfafr"  235 

written.  "Far  from  being  a  cynic,  he  was  more  like  a 
good-natured  schoolboy."  "None  of  the  little  aside 
sermons  which  he  preached  in  his  books  fell  by  any 
chance  from  his  lips,"  Mr.  Vizetelly  said.  "His  placid 
temper  and  pleasant  courtesy,  in  spite  of  the  mild 
expressions  in  which  he  indulged,  charmed  all  who  came 
into  contact  with  him.  .  .  .  Thackeray  was  reticent 
in  expressing  his  opinion  upon  people  whom  he  did  not 
like,  and  very  rarely  said  ill-natured  things  about  any 
one."* 

"There  was,  too,  a  diversity  of  opinion  about  his 
temper  and  principles,"  Dean  Hole  said.  "Others  who 
did  not  understand  him  have  made  some  cruel  mistakes. 
Whoever  desires  to  know  what  sort  of  man  he  was,  his 
love  of  goodness  and  contempt  of  evil,  let  him  read  The 
Newcomes. ' ' 

"There  were  times,"  Blanchard  Jerrold  has  told  us, 
"when  Thackeray  could  not  break  through  his  outward 
austerity,  even  when  passing  an  intimate  friend  in  the 
street.  A  mutual  friend  met  him  one  afternoon  in  Fleet 
Street,  ambling  to  Whitefriars  on  his  cob,  and  a  very 

*Mr.  Hollingshead  gives  a  good  instance  of  Thackeray's  practical 
insight  into  human  character. 

"  I  was  frankly  brutal,  and  brutally  frank,  and  might  have  been  a 
Brummagem  Carlyle  in  the  way  I  addressed  my  future  editor. 

'"You  write  a  very  pure  style,'  said  Thackeray, '  May  I  ask  where 
you  learnt  it?' 

'"  Mostly,  I  am  afraid,  in  the  streets,'  I  replied,  rather  impudently, 
'  from  costermongers  and  skittlesharps.  My  model  may  have  been 
the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  which  is  composed  chiefly,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  of  words  of  one  syllable:  anyway,  I  rarely  use  long  words, 
because  I  am  not  sure  I  always  understand  their  meaning,  and  some- 
times there  might  be  a  difficulty  about  the  spelling.'  This  was 
hardly  diplomatic  language  from  a  young  correspondent  to  a  great 
and  able  editor,  but  Thackeray  was  incapable  of  taking  offence  where 
none  was  meant.  Speaking  to  the  wild  Irish  Secretary  afterwards,  I 
believe  he  set  it  down  to  my  constitutional  nervousness  and  excite- 
ment. He  was  quite  right.  'Cheek'  is  often  the  offspring  of  bash- 
fulness." 


236         Mtlltam  /IDafeepeace 

extraordinary  figure  he  made.  He  caught  sight  of  us, 
and  my  companion  was  about  to  grasp  his  hand,  but  he 
just  touched  his  hat  with  his  finger,  and  without  opening 
his  lips,  or  relaxing  the  solemn  cast  of  his  features,  he 
passed  on.  My  companion  stamped  his  foot  on  the 
pavement,  and  cried,  'Who  would  think  we  were  up  till 
four  o'clock  this  morning  together?  He  sang  his  Rever- 
end Dr.  Luther,  and  was  the  liveliest  of  us  all. '  But 
Thackeray  was  a  sick  man  as  well  as  a  hard-worked 
one.  He  was  threatened  by  several  disorders  of  long 
continuance  and  against  which  he  stoutly  fought,  turning 
his  noble,  placid  face  bravely  upon  the  world — this  great 
Achilles  whom  we  knew,  and  who  was  most  loved  by 
those  who  knew  him  best."  And  Mr.  George  Hodder, 
who  had  every  opportunity  of  knowing  him  well,  said 
the  same  thing  in  words  not  very  dissimilar. 

Hear  Mr.  Locker  Lampson:  "I  had  a  sincere  regard 
for  Thackeray.  I  well  remember  his  striking  person- 
ality— striking  to  those  who  had  the  ability  to  recognise 
it — the  look  of  the  man,  the  latent  power,  and  the 
occasional  keenness  of  his  remarks  on  men  and  their 
actions,  as  if  he  saw  through  and  through  them.  Thack- 
eray drew  many  unto  him,  for  he  had  engaging  as  well 
as  fine  qualities.  He  was  open-handed  and  kind-hearted. 
He  had  not  an  overweening  opinion  of  his  literary  conse- 
quence, and  he  was  generous  as  regarded  the  people 
whom  the  world  chose  to  call  his  rivals." 

And  lastly,  read  Mrs.  Field's  tribute  to  the  great  man : 
"I  seem  to  see  one  kindly  face — large,  full  of  humour, 
full  of  human  sympathy.  The  face  belongs  to  Thack- 
eray, and  I  can  recall  his  goodness  to  one  who,  although 
married  already,  was  hardly  more  than  'a  slip  of  a  girl,' 
and  very  much  afraid  of  him — afraid,  let  me  say,  rather 


"Danitg  fair"  237 

of  the  idea  of  him,  the  great  author  and  famous  lecturer, 
who  was  making  his  crowded  audiences  laugh  and  cry 
at  his  simple  word  every  evening;  the  great  man  of  the 
moment  whom  everybody  was  'running  after,'  yet  of 
whom  they  said  that  he  liked  his  friends  so  much  better 
than  all  their  noise  about  himself,  that  he  was  always 
trying  to  escape  from  it — and  here  he  was! — coming  to 
see — whom?  Well,  it  appears  it  did  not  so  much  mat- 
ter, for  he  was  bent  on  kindnesses,  and  he  took  it  all  in 
at  a  glance,  and  sat  down  by  the  window,  and  drew  me 
to  him,  and  told  me  about  his  'little  girls'  at  home;  how 
he  walked  down  the  wrong  side  of  Piccadilly  one  day, 
and  so  lost  what  money  he  had  had  out  of  his  pocket — 
money  which  belonged  properly  to  these  same  dear  girls 
of  his;  therefore  it  came  about  that  he  made  up  his 
mind  though  it  was  hard  enough  to  come  away  from 
them  to  get  something  to  take  back  to  them  in  place  of 
what  he  had  lost ;  and  how  they  were  the  dearest  girls 
in  the  world  and  when  I  came  to  England  I  should  find 
them  more  like  old  friends,  and  should  have  somebody, 
I  am  sure,  he  thought,  to  'play  with,'  though,  under 
the  circumstances,  he  could  not  use  just  those  words ! 
And  then,  soon  after,  he  went  away,  leaving  a  great 
train  of  sunshine  and  kindness  behind  him  which  has 
never  faded.  ...  I  remember  one  other  interview 
with  Thackeray  during  his  visit  to  America,  in  New 
York.  He  was  coming  down  a  long  flight  of  steps  into 
the  street  after  one  of  the  lectures.  We  were  in  front, 
and  we  were  with  Washington  Irving.  Thackeray 
startled  the  little  group  by  overtaking  us  and  striking 
Irving  briskly  on  the  shoulder  (they  were  evidently  very 
much  at  home  together);  then,  turning  to  us,  'And 
here's  the  very  little  woman  I  was  telling  you  of  to-day !" 


238         Militant  flDafcepeace 

at  which  sally,  since  he  evidently  had  not  been  telling 
anything  very  serious,  we  all  laughed,  and  then  he  began 
to  relate  the  experiences  of  the  evening  (his  lecture).  It 
was  only  a  touch,  a  glance,  a  nothing,  as  one  may  say, 
but  that  warmth  and  sunlight  of  his  nature  always 
seemed  to  wake  a  new  flowing  of  existence  into  being 
where  it  shone  even  for  an  instant.  ...  It  need 
not  be  told  here  that  Thackeray  loved  the  great  world, 
and  the  strange,  noble,  and  even  ignoble  creatures  it 
contains,  and  liked  to  see  them  straight,  as  he  says, 
somewhere;  and  would  have  said  to  his  favourites,  as 
Dr.  Johnson  said  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  'Be  brisk,  be  splendid, 
and  be  public' ;  but  he  loved,  above  all,  his  fireside  cor- 
ner, and  his  'little  girls,'  and  the  friends  they  drew  about 
them." 

I  do  not  believe  that  Thackeray  neglected  his  friends 
intentionally.  That  he  did  so  is  a  view  I  hold  to  be 
entirely  untenable — his  whole  character,  his  every  action, 
shows  the  absurdity  of  this  opinion. 

We  all  know  how  it  is — if  a  social  equal  or  inferior 
pass  us  in  the  street  without  a  word  of  recognition,  it  is 
because  he  does  not  see  us;  but  if  a  person  of  a  much 
higher  rank  do  the  same,  then  it  is  because  he  does  not 
wish  to  see  us.  The  same  absurd  sensitiveness,  which 
can  only  arise  from  a  feeling  of  uncertainty  about  one's 
own  position,  may  be  seen  when  a  family  has  lost 
its  money.  They  lose  their  friends,  and  then  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter  they  grumble  at  the  perfidy  of 
wealthy  people.  But  is  it  entirely  the  fault  of  the 
friends?  I  think  not.  Perhaps  in  most  cases  it  is 
because  the  unfortunate  family  is  on  the  look-out  for 
slights  and  insults  in  a  way  that  was  quite  unnatural  to 
them  in  their  days  of  prosperity.  Thus  was  it  with  the 


ffair"  239 

friends  of  Thackeray  who  found  him  blast,  bored,  or 
cold. 

Thackeray  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Bayne,  has  defended 
himself: — 

"When  a  man  gets  this  character  (of  being  haughty, 
and  supercilious  to  old  acquaintances)  he  never  loses  it. 
This  opinion  once  put  forth  against  a  man,  all 
his  friends  believe  it,  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
new  theory,  see  coolness  where  none  is  meant.  They 
won't  allow  for  the  time  an  immensely  enlarged  acquaint- 
ance occupies,  and  fancy  I  am  dangling  after  lords  and 
fine  people  because  I  am  not  so  much  in  their  drawing- 
rooms  as  in  former  days.  They  don't  know  in  what  a 
whirl  a  man  plunges  who  is  engaged  in  my  business. 
Since  I  began  this  work  [lecturing]  besides  travelling, 
reading,  seeing  people,  dining — when  I  am  forced  out 
and  long  to  be  quiet — I  write  at  the  rate  of  five  thousand 
letters  a  year.  I  have  a  heap  before  me  now.  Six  of 
them  are  about  lectures — one  from  an  old  gentleman 
whom  I  met  on  the  railroad  and  who  sends  me  his 
fugitive  poems.  I  must  read  them,  answer  them,  and 
compliment  the  old  gentleman.  Another  from  a  poor 
widow,  in  bad  spelling,  asking  for  help.  Nobody  knows 
the  work  until  he  is  in  it.  Of  course  with  all  this,  old 
friends  hint  you  are  changed,  you  are  forsaking  them  for 
great  people,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

"PENDENNIS"—  CHARLOTTE   BRONTE 


CHAPTER   XIV 

"PENDENNIS"—  CHARLOTTE   BRONTE 

r  I  CHOUGH  the  success  of  Vanity  Fair  made  Thackeray 
-A-  independent  of  the  magazines,  he  did  not  cease  to 
contribute  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day,  and  if 
he  severed  his  connection  with  Fraser  it  was  only  to 
enable  him  to  send  a  greater  quantity  of  work  to  Punch, 
which  paper  was  far  more  congenial  to  him,  and,  it  may 
safely  be  conjectured,  a  far  better  paymaster.  His  last 
contribution  to  Fraser,  with  the  exception  of  the  satirical 
Mr.  Thackeray  in  the  United  States,  some  six  years  later, 
was  A  Grumble  at  the  Christmas  Books.  In  this  paper, 
printed  in  January,  1847,  ne  took  a  secret  farewell  of  the 
unconscious  readers  in  the  following  characteristic  para- 
graphs on  "the  very  last  page  of  the  very  last  sheet"  he 
thought  he  would  ever  contribute  to  the  magazine, 

"Ha!  what  have  we  here?  M.  A.  Titmarsh's  Christ- 
mas Book — MRS.  PERKYN'S  BALL.  Dedicated  to  the  Mul- 
ligan of  Ballymulligan.  Ballymulligan !  Ballyfiddlestick ! 
What  you,  too,  Mr.  Titmarsh?  You,  you  sneering 
wretch,  setting  up  a  Christmas  book  of  your  own !  This, 
then,  is  the  meaning  of  your  savage  feelings  towards  'the 
minor  fiddlers' !  Is  your  kit,  sirrah,  any  bigger  than 
theirs?  You,  who  in  the  columns  of  this  very  Magazine, 
have  sneered  at  the  works  of  so  many  painters,  look  at 
your  own  performances!  Some  of  your  folks  have 
scarcely  more  legs  than  Miss  Biffin :  they  have  fins 

243 


244         William  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

instead  of  hands — they  squint,  almost  every  one  of 
them !  All  this  is  quite  true.  But  see  where 

we  have  come  to! — to  the  very  last  page  of  the  very 
last  sheet;  and  the  writer  is  called  upon  to  stop  just  at 
the  very  moment  he  was  going  to  cut  his  own  head  off. 
So  have  I  seen  Mr.  Clown  (in  that  Christmas  drama 
which  has  been  foremost  in  my  thought,  during  all  the 
above  meditations)  set  up  the  gallows,  adjust  the  rope, 
try  the  noose  curiously,  and — tumble  head  over  heels." 

Mrs.  Perkyris  Ball,  the  Christmas  Book  for  1 847 — like 
its  annual  successors,  Our  Street,  Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young 
Friends,  The  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,  it  contained 
humourous  letterpress,  illustrated  by  many  full-page 
illustrations  by  the  author — was  such  a  success  that 
Thackeray  determined  to  take  advantage  of  its  popular- 
ity by  issuing  in  book-form,  through  Messrs.  Bradbury  & 
Evans,  the  Snob  Papers*  and  The  Great  Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond. In  both  these  volumes  his  own  name  was  printed 
on  the  title-page ;  but  he  had  still  a  sneaking  fondness 
for  his  favourite  pseudonym,  and  all  his  Christmas 
Books,  including  The  Rose  and  the  Ring,  bore  the  super- 
scription of  M.  A.  Titmarsh. 

Though  he  was  publishing  his  novel  with  success,  he 
did  not  dare  to  discontinue  his  other  writings  and  devote 
himself  entirely  to  novel- writing.  Even  late  in  1848 
he  said,  "As  if  I  had  not  enough  to  do  I  have  begun  to 
blaze  away  in  the  Chronicle  again;  it's  an  awful  bribe — 
that  five  guineas  an  article."  He  was  not  yet  satisfied 
with  his  prospects;  he  feared  his  popularity  might 
diminish.  He  knew  well  that  the  earnings  of  a  man  of 

*Seven  of  the  original  Snob  Papers  were  omitted  in  this  edition, 
for,  Thackeray  explained,  "on  re-perusing  these  papers  I  have  found 
them  so  ...  personal,  so  snobbish — in  a  word — that  I  have  with- 
drawn them  from  this  collection." 


"  Ipenfcennis  "—  Gbarlotte  Bronte        245 

letters  are  always  more  or  less  precarious,  and  at  this 
time  he  was  determined  to  make  money  that  could  be 
stored  away  for  the  time  of  necessity.  With  this  object 
in  view  he  caused  himself  to  be  called  to  the  bar  by  the 
Honourable  Society  of  the  Middle  Temple  on  May  26, 
1848,*  not  with  the  intention  of  practising,  but  so  as  to 
be  able  to  accept,  if  fate  would  only  give  him  the  chance, 
one  of  the  many  appointments  for  which  a  barrister  is 
eligible.  Soon  he  was  endeavouring  to  obtain  a  vacant 
magistracy — his  great  model,  Fielding,  had  sat  at  Bow 
Street — but  without  success,  as  he  told  Monckton  Milnes 
in  the  following  letter — a  letter  in  which  can  be  discerned 
such  a  longing  for  rest  from  the  never-ceasing  writing 
and  revising  which  had  become  almost  insupportable; 
but  while  the  pathos  is  marked,  a  smile  must  be  given  at 
the  idea  of  Thackeray,  who  is  for  all  time,  and  who  had 
not  then  written  Esmond  or  The  Newcomes,  being  able  to 
live  for  six  years  in  the  literary  world  by  trading  on  his 
past  reputation. 

"You  are  a  good  and  lovable  adviser  and  M.P.,  but 
I  cannot  get  the  Magistrate's  place,  not  being  eligible. 
I  was  only  called  to  the  Bar  last  year;  and  they  require 
barristers  of  seven  years'  standing.  Time  will  qualify 
me,  however,  and  I  hope  to  be  able  to  last  six  years  in 
the  literary  world ;  for  though  I  shall  write,  I  daresay, 
very  badly,  yet  the  public  won't  find  it  out  for  some 
time,  and  I  shall  live  on  my  past  reputation.  It  is  a 
pity  to  be  sure.  If  I  could  get  a  place  and  rest,  I  think 
I  could  do  something  better  than  I  have  done,  and  leave 
a  good  and  lasting  book  behind  me ;  but  Fate  is  overrul- 
ing. I  have  written  to  thank  L for  his  kind  letter, 

*At  the  time  it  seems  that  Thackeray  had  chambers  at  10,  Crown 
Office  Row,  Temple. 


246         TNHllfam  /IDafeepeace  Ubacfeera£ 

and  to  beg  him  to  remember  me  if  an  opportunity  occurs 
of  serving  me.  I  wonder  whether  Lord  Palmerston 
could?  But  I  would  rather  be  in  London.  Thank  you 
for  thinking  of  me,  and  believe  me  I  am  grateful."* 

In  this  year,  too,  the  assistant  secretaryship  at  the 
post-office  became  vacant,  and  Lord  Clanricarde,  then 
postmaster-general,  endeavoured  to  obtain  the  situation 
for  Thackeray;  but  so  much  opposition  was  aroused  in 
the  service  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  appointment  of 
an  outsider  to  a  berth  that  required  special  experience, 
that  the  Marquis  was  obliged  to  abandon  his  intention. 

Others  besides  Thackeray  himself  thought  he  required 
rest  and  quiet,  and  his  friends  continually  urged  him  to 
work  less.  In  1849  Thackeray  wrote  to  Mrs.  Brookfield: 
"Big  Higgins"  \^Jacob  Omnium],  "who  dined  with  me 
yesterday,  offered  me,  what  do  you  think?  'If,'  says 
he,  'you  are  tired,  and  want  to  lie  fallow  for  a  year, 
come  to  me  for  the  money.  I  have  much  more  than  I 
want.'  Wasn't  it  kind?  I  like  to  hear  and  tell  of  kind 
things." 

Writing  to  the  same  correspondent  a  little  later  from 
Paris,  during  one  of  his  numerous  visits  there,  he  said : 
"What  brought  me  to  this  place?  Well,  I  am  glad  I 
came;  it  will  give  me  a  subject  for  at  least  six  weeks  in 
Punch,  of  which  I  was  getting  so  weary  that  I  thought 
I  must  have  done  with  it.  ...  I  went  to  see  my 
old  haunts  when  I  came  to  Paris  thirteen  years  ago,  and 
made  believe  to  be  a  painter — just  after  I  was  ruined, 
and  before  I  fell  in  love,  and  took  to  marriage  and  writ- 
ing. It  was  a  jolly  time.  I  was  as  poor  as  Job,  and 
sketched  away  most  abominably,  but  pretty  contented ; 
and  we  used  to  meet  in  each  other's  little  rooms  and  talk 
*The  Life  and  Letters  of  Monckton  Milnes. 


"  IPenbennte  "—  Cbarlotte  SSronte        247 

about  art,  and  smoke  pipes,  and  drink  bad  brandy  and 
water.  That  awful  habit  still  remains,  but  where  is  art, 
that  dear  mistress  whom  I  loved,  though  in  a  very  indo- 
lent, capricious  manner,  but  with  a  real  sincerity?  I  see 
her  far,  very  far  off.  I  jilted  her.  I  know  it  very 
well;  but  you  see  it  was  Fate  ordained  that  marriage 
should  never  take  place,  and  forced  me  to  take  on  with 
another  lady,  two  other  ladies,  three  other  ladies — I 
mean  the  muse,  and  my  wife,  etc.,  etc." 

How  sad  were  the  memories  conjured  up  in  the  ballad 
of  Bouillabaisse!  How  easy  to  see  the  true  pathos,  the 
deep  feeling,  the  sorrowing  heart,  the  sad  man !  Who, 
knowing  the  story  of  the  writer's  life,  does  not  feel  a 
little  dull  after  reading  the  exquisite  verse: — 

"Ah  me!  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 
When  here  I'd  sit  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  sad  place — but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  face  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up 
And  sweetly  spoke,  and  smiled  to  cheer  me! 

There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup." 

He  had  left  London  for  the  continent  immediately  the 
last  number  of  Vanity  Fair  was  written  (July,  1848),* 
and  it  was  at  Spa  that  he  began  his  next  great  novel, 
The  History  of  Pendennis — His  Fortunes  and  Misfortunes^  and 
his  Friends  and  his  Greatest  Enemy,  the  first  instalment  of 
which  was  published  by  Messrs.  Bradbury  &  Evans  (who 
had  just  issued  Vanity  Fair  in  two-volume  form)  in 
November.  The  publication  of  the  new  venture  contin- 

*Mr.  Eyre  Crowe  has  related  how, when  Thackeray  and  Mr.  Torrens 
McCullagh  were  lunching  with  his  father  in  June,  1848,  the  latter  said 
to  the  novelist,  "  Well,  I  see  you  are  going  to  shut  up  jour  puppets 
in  their  box."  "Yes,"  Thackeray  replied  immediately,  "and  with 
your  permission  I'll  work  up  that  simile."  How  skillfully  he  did  this 
all  readers  of  the  preface  Before  the  Curtain  will  remember. 


248         William  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

ued  regularly  month  after  month,  and  the  eleventh  num- 
ber had  appeared  in  September,  1849,  when  the  even 
tenour  of  its  way  was  suddenly  interrupted,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  year  Pendennis  was  at  a  standstill.  Thack- 
eray was  ill — so  ill,  indeed,  during  September,  October, 
and  November,  that  it  seemed  only  too  probable  that  he 
would  never  rise  from  the  sick  bed.  It  was  a  time  of 
dreadful  anxiety  to  his  family  and  to  his  friends.  Dr. 
Merriman  attended  him,  and  also  Dr.  Elliotson,  to 
whom,  thirteen  months  later,  Pendennis,  on  its  publica- 
tion in  book  form,  was  dedicated.  It  was  not  until 
December  that  his  recovery  was  assured.  Fitzgerald 
saw  him  on  the  /th,  and  wrote  to  Frederick  Tennyson: 
"I  saw  poor  Thackeray  in  London,  getting  slowly  better 
of  a  bilious  fever  that  had  nearly  killed  him. 
People  in  general  thought  Pendennis  got  dull  as  it  got 
on ;  and  I  confess  I  thought  so  too :  he  would  do  well 
to  take  the  opportunity  of  his  illness  to  discontinue  it 
altogether.  He  told  me  last  June  he  himself  was  tired 
of  it,  and  must  not  his  readers  naturally  tire  too?"  For- 
tunately, Thackeray,  after  being  rescued  from  illness, 
was  saved  from  his  friends,  and  the  twelfth  number  of 
Pendennis  appeared  in  January  of  the  new  year.  Fitz- 
gerald, re-reading  the  novel  years  later,  altered  his  opin- 
ion. ' '  I  like  Pendennis  much, ' '  he  then  said ;  ' '  and  Alfred 
[Tennyson]  said  he  thought  it  was  quite  delicious;  'it 
seemed  to  him  so  mature,'  he  said.  You  can  imagine 
Alfred  saying  this  over  one's  fire,  spreading  his  great 
hand  out." 

There  is  probably  nothing  more  interesting  to  be 
related  in  the  whole  story  of  Thackeray's  life  than  the 
account  of  his  slight  acquaintance  with  Charlotte 
Bronte,  whom  he  first  met  about  this  time.  Even  before 


fMay.l 


No.  VII. 


PBICB 


ff 


HIS   FORTUNES   AND   MISFORTUNES, 
HIS    FRIENDS    AND    HIS    GREATEST    ENE/VIY. 

BY 

W.  M.  THACKERAY, 

Author  of  "  Vanity  Fwr,"  the  "Bnob  Papon"  in  PUNCH,  &c.  &c. 


LONDON '.  fcRAIJBURY  A.  EVANS.  11,  BOUVERIE  STREET. 

t.  fciHZIES,  IDUtBtoQg  J    I.  KUBJU7,    OLASQOW  ;    AlfD   J.  H'OLISBA*',    DUBLIK. 


n-y  t  8 '«,„. 


J849. 


"penoennfs"—  Cbarlotte  Bronte        249 

he  knew  her  name  or  sex  he  had  sent  her  a  copy  of 
Vanity  Fair,  inscribed  "With  the  grateful  regard  of  W. 
M.  Thackeray,"  and  he  was  not  a  man  to  send  indis- 
criminately inscribed  copies  of  his  works,  even  to  the 
most  famous  writers.  On  the  other  hand,  it  has  already 
been  told  how  greatly  the  lady  admired  the  works  of  the 
great  novelist,  and  therefore,  when  the  authoress  of  Jane 
Eyre  came  up  to  town  in  1849,  she  eagerly  accepted  the 
offer  of  Mr.  Smith,  her  publisher  and  host,  to  introduce 
Thackeray  to  her.  When  Miss  Bronte  met  him  she  was 
much  astonished.  She  had  expected — as  the  dedication 
to  the  second  edition  of  Jane  Eyre  showed — to  find  a 
fervent  prophet,  and  Thackeray  was  simply  a  quiet, 
well-bred  gentleman,  with  nothing  in  appearance  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  hosts  of  other  men.  He  was  an 
enigma  to  Currer  Bell;  she  could  not  understand  him ; 
she  was  never  certain  whether  he  was  speaking  in  jest  or 
in  earnest;  and  she  told  Mrs.  Gaskell  that  "she  had  (she 
believed)  completely  misunderstood  an  inquiry  of  his, 
made  on  the  gentlemen's  coming  into  the  drawing-room. 
He  asked  her  'if  she  had  perceived  the  scent  of  their 
cigars,'  to  which  she  literally  replied,  discovering  in  a 
moment  afterwards,  by  the  smile  on  several  faces,  that 
he  was  alluding  to  a  passage  in  Jane  Eyre. 

Miss  Bronte  also  wrote  at  this  time  to  friends:  "All 
you  say  of  Mr.  Thackeray  is  most  graphic  and  character- 
istic. He  stirs  in  me  both  sorrow  and  anger.  Why 
should  he  lead  so  harassing  a  life?  Why  should  his 
mocking  tongue  so  perversely  deny  the  better  feelings  of 
his  better  moods?  .  .  .  Mr.  Thackeray  is  a  man  of 
very  quiet,  simple  demeanour;  he  is,  however,  looked 
up  to  with  some  awe  and  even  distrust.  .  .  .  Thack- 
eray is  a  Titan  of  mind.  His  presence  and  powers 


250         William  /fcafeepeace 

impress  one  deeply  in  an  intellectual  sense;  I  do  not 
know  him,  or  see  him  as  a  man.  All  the  others  are  sub- 
ordinate. ...  I  was  sufficiently  at  my  ease  with  all 
but  Thackeray;  with  him  I  was  fearfully  stupid." 

The  truth  is  that  she  never  understood  Thackeray — 
read  the  extract  from  a  letter  written  to  a  friend,  after 
her  first  meeting  with  the  giant. 

"I  have  had  a  remarkable  epistle  from  Thackeray, 
long,  interesting,  characteristic,  but,  unfortunately,  con- 
cludes with  the  strict  injunction,  'Show  this  letter  to  no 
one,'  adding  that  if  he  thought  his  letters  were  seen  by 
others  he  should  either  cease  to  write,  or  write  only 
what  was  conventional.  I  have  answered  it  at  length ; 
whether  my  reply  will  give  satisfaction  or  displeasure 
remains  to  be  ascertained.  Thackeray's  feelings  are  not 
such  as  can  be  gauged  by  ordinary  calculation.  Favour- 
able weather  is  what  I  should  ever  expect  from  that 
quarter.  Yet  in  correspondence,  as  in  verbal  inter- 
course, this  would  torment  me." 

In  June  of  the  following  year  she  came  up  to  London 
again.  "He  [Thackeray]  made  a  morning  call,"  she 
wrote,  "and  sat  about  two  hours.  Mr.  Smith  only  was 
in  the  room  the  whole  time.  He  described  it  after- 
wards as  a  queer  scene,  and  I  suppose  it  was.  The 
giant  sat  before  me;  I  was  moved  to  speak  of  some  of 
his  shortcomings  (literary,  of  course);  one  by  one  the 
faults  came  into  my  head,  and  one  by  one  I  brought 
them  out,  and  sought  some  explanation  or  defence.  He 
did  defend  himself  like  a  great  Turk  and  heathen ;  that 
is  to  say,  the  excuses  were  often  worse  than  the  crime 
itself.  The  matter  ended  in  decent  amity;  if  all  be  well 
I  am  to  dine  at  his  house  this  evening  (June  12)."* 

*Mrs.  Gaskell's  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte. 


"penfcennis"—  Cbarlotte  JSronte        251 

In  the  Life  of  Lord  Houghton  Sir  Wemyss  Reid  has 
written:  "Before  me,  as  I  write,  is  a  little  note  penned 
in  the  beautiful  hand  of  Thackeray  upon  a  card  which  in 
its  interest  is  not  surpassed  by  any  other  letter  among 
the  many  thousands  left  behind  him  by  Milnes.  'My 
dear  Milnes,'  it  runs,  'Miss  Bronte  dines  here  to-morrow 
at  seven.  If  you  are  by  any  wonder  disengaged,  come 
to  yours  truly,  W.  M.  Thackeray.'  The  invitation  is 
dated  '  13,  Young  Street,  Tuesday.'  It  is,  alas!  the  only 
record  that  remains  of  a  meeting  the  interest  of  which 
it  would  be  hard  to  exaggerate." 

The  Life  of  Lord  Houghton  was  published  in  1890,  and 
since  then  a  full  account  of  the  dinner-party,  "as  amus- 
ing as  it  is  interesting,"  has  been  written  by  Mrs. 
Ritchie.  Among  the  guests  were  Mrs.  Crowe,  Mrs. 
Brookfield,  the  Carlyles,  Mrs.  Eliot,  Miss  Perry,  and 
Mrs.  Procter  and  her  daughter.  Monckton  Milnes  could 
not  go. 

"It  was  a  gloomy  and  a  silent  evening,"  Mrs. 
Ritchie  has  recorded ;  "every  one  waited  for  the  brilliant 
conversation  which  never  began  at  all.  Miss  Bronte 
returned  to  the  sofa  in  the  study,  and  murmured  a  low 
word  now  and  then  to  our  kind  governess,  Miss  True- 
lock.  The  room  looked  very  dark,  the  lamp  began  to 
smoke  a  little,  the  conversation  grew  dimmer  and  more 
dim,  the  ladies  sat  round  still  expectant,  my  father  was 
too  much  perturbed  by  the  gloom  and  the  silence  to  be 
able  to  cope  with  it  at  all.  Mrs.  Brookfield,  who  was  in 
the  corner  in  which  Miss  Bronte  was  sitting,  leant  forward 
with  a  little  commonplace,  since  brilliance  was  not  to  be 
the  order  of  the  evening.  'Do  you  like  London,  Miss 
Bronte?'  she  said;  another  silence,  a  pause,  then  Miss 
Bronte  answered,  'Yes  —  No,'  very  gravely. 


252         William  flDafeepeace 

After  Miss  Bronte  had  left,  I  was  surprised  to  see  my 
father  opening  the  front  door  with  his  hat  on.  He  put 
his  fingers  to  his  lips,  walked  out  into  the  darkness,  and 
shut  the  door  quietly  behind  him.  When  I  went  back 
to  the  drawing-room  again,  the  ladies  asked  me  where 
he  was.  I  vaguely  answered  that  I  thought  he  was 
coming  back. 

"Long  years  afterwards,  Mrs.  Procter,  with  a  good 
deal  of  humour,  described  the  situation — the  ladies,  who 
had  all  come  expecting  so  much  delightful  conversation, 
and  the  gloom  and  constraint,  and  how,  finally,  over- 
whelmed by  the  situation,  my  father  had  quietly  left  the 
room,  left  the  house,  and  gone  off  to  his  club.  The 
ladies  waited,  wondered,  and  finally  departed  also;  and 
as  we  were  going  up  to  bed  with  our  candles,  after  every- 
body was  gone,  I  remember  two  pretty  Miss  L s,  in 

shiny  silk  dresses,  arriving,  full  of  expectation. 

We  still  said  we  thought  our  father  would  soon  be  back, 

but  the  Miss  L s  declined  to  wait  upon  the  chance, 

laughed,  and  drove  away  almost  immediately."* 

Once  more  did  the  man  of  genius  and  the  gifted 
woman  meet.  It  was  in  the  early  summer  of  1851. 
Miss  Bronte's  letters  tell  the  tale: — 

"I  came  here  [London]  on  Wednesday,  being  sum- 
moned a  day  sooner  than  I  expected,  in  order  to  be  in 
time  for  Thackeray's  second  lecture,  which  was  deliv- 
ered on  Thursday  afternoon.  This,  as  you  may  sup- 
pose, was  a  great  treat,  and  I  was  glad  not  to  miss  it. 
.  .  .  Thackeray  called,  too,  separately.  I  had  a  long 
talk  with  him,  and  I  think  he  knows  me  now  a  little 
better  than  he  did ;  but  of  this  I  cannot  yet  be  sure ;  he 
is  a  great  and  strange  man.  .  .  .  As  our  party  left 

*  Chapters  from  Some  Unwritten  Memoirs:  A.  I.  Ritchie. 


"penfcennis"—  Cbarlotte  3Bronte        253 

the  [lecture]  Hall,  he  [Thackeray]  stood  at  the  entrance; 
he  saw  and  knew  me,  and  lifted  his  hat ;  he  offered  his 
hand  in  passing,  and  uttered  the  words,  'Qu'en  dites 
vous?' — a  question  eminently  characteristic  and  remind- 
ing me,  even  in  this  his  moment  of  triumph,  of  that 
inquisitive  restlessness,  that  absence  of  what  I  consid- 
ered desirable  self-control,  which  were  amongst  his 
faults.  He  should  not  have  cared  just  then  to  ask  what 
I  thought ;  or  what  anybody  thought ;  but  he  did  care, 
and  he  was  too  natural  to  conceal,  too  impulsive  to 
repress  his  wish.  Well !  if  I  blamed  his  over-eagerness, 
I  liked  his  naivete.  I  would  have  praised  him;  I  had 
plenty  of  praise  in  my  heart;  but,  alas!  no  words  on  my 
lips.  Who  has  words  at  the  right  moment?  I  stam- 
mered lame  expressions;  but  was  truly  glad  when  some 
other  people,  coming  up  with  profuse  congratulations, 
covered  my  deficiency  by  their  redundancy."* 

Indeed,  though  intensely  appreciative,  she  proved  so 
severe  a  critic,  both  of  himself  and  his  works,  that 
Thackeray  was  not  quite  pleased  with  the  various  letters 
(printed  in  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Life]  in  which  she  had  ex- 
pressed her  opinions,  and  he  said  as  much  in  his  Last 
Sketch,  prefixed  to  Emma  when,  under  his  editorship,  that 
fragment  appeared  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine. 

"I  can  only  say  of  this  lady,  vidi  tantum.  I  saw  her 
first  just  as  I  rose  out  of  an  illness  from  which  I  had 
never  thought  to  recover.  I  remember  the  trembling 
little  frame,  the  little  hand,  the  great  honest  eyes.  An 
impetuous  honesty  seemed  to  me  to  characterise  the 
woman.  Twice  I  recollect  she  took  me  to  task  for  what 
she  held  to  be  errors  in  doctrine.  Once  about  Fielding 
we  had  a  disputation.  She  spoke  her  mind  out.  She 

*Mrs.  Gaskell's  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte. 


254         TWlUUam  /iDafeepeace  ZTbacfeeras 

jumped  to  conclusions  (I  have  smiled  at  one  or  two 
passages  in  the  Biography,  in  which  my  own  disposition 
or  behaviour  form  the  subject  of  talk).  She  formed 
conclusions  that  might  be  wrong,  and  built  up  whole  the- 
ories of  character  upon  them.  New  to  the  London 
world,  she  entered  it  with  an  independent,  indomitable 
spirit  of  her  own;  and  judged  of  contemporaries,  and 
especially  spied  out  arrogance  or  affectation,  with 
extraordinary  keenness  of  vision.  She  was  angry  with 
her  favourites  if  their  conduct  or  conversation  fell  below 
her  ideal.  Often  she  seemed  to  be  judging  the  London 
folks  prematurely:  but  perhaps  the  city  is  rather  angry 
at  being  judged.  It  fancied  an  austere  little  Joan  of 
Arc  marching  in  upon  us,  and  rebutting  our  easy  lives, 
our  easy  morals.  She  gave  me  the  impression  of  being 
a  very  pure,  and  lofty,  and  high-minded  person.  A 
great  and  holy  reverence  of  right  and  truth  seemed  to 
be  with  her  always.  Such,  in  our  brief  interview,  she 
appeared  to  me."* 

*In  To-day  the  following  anecdote,  entitled  A  Crushed  Ideal,  was 
inserted,  I  know  not  on  what  authority;  but  whether  real  or  imaginary, 
it  is  amusingly  true  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  attitude: — 

It  is  of  Thackeray's  first  meeting  with  Charlotte  Bronte.  The 
tiny,  intense  creature  had  idealised  Thackeray,  personally  unknown 
to  her,  with  a  passion  of  idealisation.  "  Behold,  a  lion  cometh  out  of 
the  North!"  she  quoted  under  her  breath,  as  Thackeray  entered  the 
drawing-room.  Some  one  repeated  to  him.  "Oh,  Lord!"  said 
Thackeray,  "  and  I'm  nothing  but  a  poor  devil  of  an  Englishman, 
ravenous  for  my  dinner! "  At  dinner  Miss  Bronte  was  placed  oppo- 
site Thackeray,  by  her  own  request.  "And  I  had,"  said  he,  "the 
miserable  humiliation  of  seeing  her  ideal  of  me  disappearing  down 
my  own  throat,  as  everything  went  into  my  mouth  and  nothing  came 
out  of  it;  until  at  last,  as  I  took  my  fifth  potato,  she  leaned  across, 
with  clasped  hands  and  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  breathed  imploringly, 
•Oh,  Mr. Thackeray!  Don't!"' 


CHAPTER   XV 
THACKERAY  AND   PUNCH 


CHAPTER   XV 

THACKERAY   AND    PUNCH 

DURING  1847  and  the  two  following  years  Thack- 
eray wrote  and  drew  so  much  for  Punch  that  it  is 
only  possible  to  enumerate  a  few  of  his  contributions. 
An  Eastern  Adventure  of  the  Fat  Contributor,  the  immortal 
Mahogany  Tree,  the  Love  Songs,  including  the  well-beloved 
Cane-bottomed  Chair,  the  Travels  in  London  (it  was  said 
that  Frank  Whitestock,  in  The  Curates'  Walk,  was 
intended  to  be  a  sketch  of  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield), 
the  Bow  Street  Ballads  (Ballads  of  Pleaceman  X},  and  A 
Little  Dinner  at  Timmins's,  Besides  there  were  Punch's 
Prize  Novelists,  six  in  number,  parodies  of  the  styles  of 
popular  authors,  which  were  so  excellent  that  Lever,  on 
reading  Phil  Fogarty,  declared  he  might  as  well  shut  up 
shop,  and  actually  altered  the  character  of  his  novels, 
and  that  Disraeli  never  forgave  the  Codlingsby,  but,  in 
Endymion,  travestied  the  style  of  St.  Barbe  (Thackeray) 
in  Topsy  Turvey  (Vanity  Fair)  and  Scaramouch  (Punch)* 
These,  together  with  the  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  and 
Brown's  Letters,  must  complete  this  list. 

There  is  a  pleasant  episode  to  chronicle  during  1848 
in  connection  with  Thackeray  and  Punch.  In  Edin- 
burgh, Dr.  John  Brown,  a  great  admirer  of  the  humour- 
ist's writings,  had  seen  a  silver  statuette  of  Punch  in  a 

*He  had  intended  to  write  parodies  both  of  Dickens  and  of  him- 
self, but  Punch  refused  to  insert  that  on  Dickens,  and  so  both 
remained  unwritten. 

257 


258         TKlUliam  flDafcepeace  Ubacfeeras 

jeweller's  window,  and  suggested  to  his  friends  that  it 
should  be  bought  and  sent  to  Thackeray.  The  cash 
price  was  ten  pounds,  and  so  it  was  determined — to 
make  the  little  testimonial  more  valuable — that  eighty 
persons  should  subscribe  for  it.  The  subscribers  included 
Lord  Jeffrey  and  Sir  William  Hamilton ;  the  inkstand 
was  purchased,  engraved  with  an  inscription — 

GULIELMO   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 

ARMA  VIRUMQUE 
GRATI   NECNON  GRATAE   EDINENSIS 

L  X  X  X 
D  D  D 

and  forwarded  with  an  explanatory  note  to  Thackeray, 
who,  delighted  with  the  unexpected  tribute,  hastened  to 
thank  the  donors  through  their  spokesman,  Dr.  John 
Brown,  the  author  of  Rob  and  His  Friends. 

"13,  YOUNG  STREET,  KENSINGTON  SQUARE,  May  n,  1848. 
"MY  DEAR  SIR, — The  arms  and  the  man  arrived  in 
safety  yesterday,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  the  names  of 
two  of  the  eighty  Edinburgh  friends  who  have  taken 
such  a  kind  method  of  showing  their  good  will  towards 
me.  If  you  are  grati,  I  am  gratior.  Such  tokens  of 
regard  and  sympathy  are  very  precious  to  a  writer  like 
myself,  who  has  some  difficulty  still  in  making  people 
understand  what  you  have  been  good  enough  to  find  out 
in  Edinburgh,  that  under  the  mask  satirical  there  walks 
about  a  sentimental  gentleman  who  means  not  unkindly 
to  any  mortal  person.  I  can  see  exactly  the  same 
expression  under  the  vizard  of  my  little  friend  in  silver, 
and  hope  some  day  to  shake  the  whole  octagint  by  the 
hand  gratos  and  gratas,  and  thank  them  for  their  friend- 
liness and  regard.  I  think  I  had  better  say  no  more  on 
the  subject,  lest  I  should  be  tempted  into  some  enthu- 


an£>  "Jpuncb"  259 

siastic  writing  of  which  I  am  afraid.  I  assure  you 
these  tokens  of  what  I  can't  help  acknowledging  as 
popularity — make  me  humble  as  well  as  grateful — and 
make  me  feel  an  awful  sense  of  the  responsibility  which 
falls  upon  a  man  in  such  a  station.  Is  it  deserved  or 
undeserved?  Who  is  this  that  sets  up  to  preach  to 
mankind  and  to  laugh  at  many  of  the  things  which  men 
reverence?  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  the  truth 
always,  etc.,  to  see  it  straight,  according  to  the  eyes 
which  God  Almighty  gives  me.  And  if,  in  the  exercise 
of  my  calling,  I  get  friends  and  find  encouragement  and 
sympathy,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  I  feel  and  am 
grateful  for  this  support.  Indeed,  I  can't  reply  lightly 
upon  this  subject,  or  feel  otherwise  than  very  grave  when 
men  praise  me  as  you  do.  Wishing  you  and  my  Edin- 
burgh friends  all  health  and  happiness, 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  most  faithfully  yours, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

The  year  1850  saw  an  event  of  much  importance  in 
his  literary  life. 

"What  do  you  think  I  have  done  to-day?"  he  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Brookfield.  "I  have  sent  in  my  resignation  to 
Punch.  There  appears  in  the  next  Punch  an  article  so 

wicked,  I  think,  by  poor ,  that  upon  my  word  I 

don't  think  I  ought  to  pull  any  longer  in  the  same  boat 
with  such  a  savage  young  Robespierre.  The  appearance 
of  this  incendiary  article  has  put  me  in  such  a  rage  that 
I  could  only  cool  myself  by  a  ride  in  the  Park." 

In  the  columns  of  the  paper  he  also  announced  his 
determination:  "Another  member  of  Mr.  Punch's  cabinet, 
the  biographer  of  Jeames,  the  author  of  the  Snob  Papers, 
resigned  his  functions  on  account  of  Mr.  Punch's  assault 


26o        William  flDafcepeace  Ubacfeeras 

upon  the  present  Emperor  of  the  French  nation,  whose 
anger  Jeames  thought  it  unpatriotic  to  arouse."* 

It  seems  that  at  the  time  there  was  some  misunder- 
standing as  to  the  cause  of  his  resignation.  This  Thack- 
eray cleared  up  in  a  letter,  dated  March  20,  1855, 
addressed  to  F.  M.  Evans  (History  of  Punch,  pp.  323-24). 
"I  had  had  some  difference  with  the  Conduct  of  Punch 
about  the  abuse  of  Prince  Albert  and  the  Crystal  Palace, 
at  which  I  very  nearly  resigned,  about  abuse  of  Lord 
Palmerston,  about  abuse  finally  of  L.  Napoleon — in  all 
of  which  Punch  followed  the  Times,  which  I  think  and 
thought  was  writing  unjustly  at  that  time,  and  danger- 
ously for  the  welfare  and  peace  of  the  country.  Coming 
from  Edinburgh  I  bought  a  Punch  containing  the  picture 
of  a  Beggar  on  Horseback,  in  which  the  Emperor  was 
represented  galloping  to  hell  with  a  sword  reeking  with 
blood.  As  soon  as  ever  I  could  after  my  return  (a  day 
or  two  after)  I  went  to  Bouverie  Street,  saw  you  and 
gave  in  my  resignation." 

But  even  after  his  formal  resignation  he  continued  to 
write  for  the  journal.  In  the  History  of  Punch  we  are 
told  that  there  are  forty-one  literary  items  and  twelve 
cuts  to  his  credit  in  1851.  It  is  known,  too,  that  in 
April  of  this  year  he  sent  in  his  May-day  Ode  to  the 
editor — which,  for  insertion  in  the  next  issue,  should 
have  been  delivered  not  later  than  Saturday  morning, 
but  was  not  delivered  until  the  evening,  when  Mark 
Lemon  either  could  not  or  would  not  insert  it  until  the 
following  week.  Thackeray  was  annoyed,  and  himself 
carried  the  manuscript  to  Printing  House  Square;  the 
Ode  appearing  in  the  Times  on  the  following  Monday 

*Richard  Doyle  had  recently  left  the  staff  on  account  of  the 
attacks  on  the  Catholics. 


ant>  "jpuncb"  261 

morning  (April  30).  During  the  next  three  years  he 
contributed  only  The  Organ  Boy's  Appeal,  which  was 
printed  in  the  twenty-fifth  volume,  and  then,  during 
June  and  July,  1854,  Letters  from  the  East  by  Our  Own 
Bashi  Bazouk,  which  was  his  swan  song  as  far  as  Punch 
was  concerned.  " Wishing  you  all  heartily  well,"  he 
wrote  in  the  letter  just  mentioned,  "I  wrote  a  few  occa- 
sional papers  last  year — and  not  liking  the  rate  of 
remuneration,  which  was  less  than  that  to  which  I  had 
been  accustomed  in  my  time,  I  wrote  no  more.  And 
you  can  say  for  me,  as  a  reason  why  I  should  feel  hurt 
at  your  changing  the  old  rates  of  payment  made  to  me — 
that  I  am  not  a  man  who  quarrels  about  a  guinea  or  two 
except  as  a  point  of  honour;  and  that  when  I  could  have 
had  a  much  larger  sum  than  that  which  you  gave  me  for 
my  last  novel — I  preferred  to  remain  with  old  friends, 
who  had  acted  honourably  and  kindly  by  me. 
And  I  think  it  now  about  time  my  old  friends  and  pub- 
lishers should  set  me  right." 

There  is  an  interesting  page  in  the  History  of  Punch 
on  which  is  given  a  tabular  account  of  the  amount  writ- 
ten by  each  of  the  staff  during  the  second  half-year  of 
1844.  Jerrold  produced  139^  columns,  a  Beckett  94^, 
Leigh  39,  Thackeray  24^,  Mayhew  16^,  Taylor  6^, 
the  editor  (including  outside  contributions)  20,  Oxenford 
i^,  Laman  Blanchard  i^,  and  H.  Wills  I  only.  Each 
member  was  expected  to  fill  a  certain  number  of  columns, 
for  outside  contributions  have  always  been  discouraged, 
and  to  Thackeray  were  allotted  forty-six  columns  per 
half-year. 

For  ten  years  he  had  well  and  truly  served  the  paper 
with  both  pen  and  pencil.  His  collected  contributions 
would  more  than  fill  two  large  volumes,  and  this,  too, 


262         TOlliam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfeeray 

in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  did  not  find  the  task  of  pro- 
duction easy.  "I  must  beg  of  you  to  excuse  me,"  he 
wrote  once,  after  three  hours'  unproductive  labour, 
"for  I've  worked  as  hard  for  you  as  though  I  had  done 
something."  His  pencil,  however,  did  not  as  a  rule 
give  him  so  much  trouble,  and  Mr.  Swain  has  told  us 
how  Thackeray  would  often  produce  a  Punch  drawing 
" while  you  wait."  He  did  not  leave  Punch  in  anger, 
nor,  as  it  has  just  been  shown,  did  he  desert  the  journal 
to  which  he  had  rendered  such  signal  service,  and  which 
had  been  of  so  much  assistance  to  him.  "Ah,  Swain," 
he  said  one  day,  "if  it  had  not  been  for  Punch,  I  wonder 
where  I  should  be!"  And  when  in  later  years  his  help 
was  asked  on  behalf  of  the  widow  of  one  of  the  Punch 
staff,  he  offered  to  do  all  in  his  power,  "for,"  he  wrote, 
"it  is  through  my  connection  with  Punch  that  I  owe  the 
good  chances  that  have  lately  befallen  me,  and  have  had 
so  many  kind  offers  of  help  in  my  own  days  of  trouble, 
that  I  would  thankfully  aid  a  friend  whom  death  has 
called  away." 

One  misunderstanding  he  did  have  with  the  Punch 
staff,  though,  but  one  only.  In  December,  1854,  he 
sent  to  the  Quarterly  Review  an  article  on  John  Leech's 
Pictures  of  Life  and  Character.  In  this  he  said,  "There  is 
no  blinking  the  fact  that  in  Mr.  Punch's  cabinet  John 
Leech  is  the  right-hand  man.  Fancy  a  number  of  Punch 
without  Leech's  pictures!  What  would  you  give  for  it? 
The  learned  gentlemen  who  write  the  work  must  feel 
that  without  him  it  were  as  well  left  alone."  Anthony 
Trollope  has  related  that  for  a  week  there  existed  at  the 
Punch  office  a  grudge  against  Thackeray  in  reference  to 
this  awkward  question:  "What  would  you  give  for  your 
Punch  without  John  Leech?"  Then  he  asked  the  con- 


an&  "puncb"  263 

fraternity  to  dinner — more  TJiackeraya.no — and  the  confra- 
ternity came. 

The  passage  was  undoubtedly  a  blunder.  Not  that  I 
think  he  was  wrong  in  what  he  wrote — for  I  believe 
twenty  people  glance  at  the  pictures  in  Punch  for  one 
who  reads  the  letterpress;  but  the  statement  was  cer- 
tainly one  of  those  things  better  left  unsaid,  and  it  was 
only  used  by  Thackeray  to  show  the  great  value  he 
placed  on  Leech's  work,  forgetting  entirely  that  it  would 
read  as  disparagement  of  the  various  writers'  handiwork. 
He,  indeed,  admitted  this  in  a  letter  to  "Professor" 
Percival  Leigh,  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  paper's  con- 
tributors, and  the  author  of  the  Comic  Latin  and  English 
Grammars. 

"Of  all  the  slips  of  my  fatal  pen,"  he  wrote,  "there's 
none  I  regret  more  than  the  unlucky  half-line  which  has 
given  pain  to  such  a  kind  and  valued  old  friend  as  you 
have  been,  and  I  trust  will  be  still  to  me.  I  ought  never 
to  have  said,  ' Punch  might  as  well  be  left  unwritten  but 
for  Leech.'  It  was  more  than  my  meaning,  which  is 
certainly  that  the  drawing  is  a  hundred  times  more  pop- 
ular than  the  writing;  but  I  had  no  business  to  write  any 
such  thing,  and  forget  it  so  much  that  I  was  quite  sur- 
prised when  I  first  heard  I  had  been  accused  of  sneering 
at  Punch.  I  knew  when  I  came  back  from  Paris,  and 
read  the  line  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  which  I  had  for- 
gotten as  utterly  as  many  another  speech*  which  I  have 
made  and  didn't  ought.  Jerrold  has  had  his  fire  into 
me,  and,  do  you  know,  I  feel  rather  comforted." 

*This  is  not  the  only  case  in  which  Thackeray  complains  of  his 
memory,  and  in  the  Brookfield  Letters  are  several  mentions  of  his 
forgetfulness.  In  July,  1850,  he  wrote:  "I've  been  working  all  the 
morning,  and  reading  back  numbers  in  order  to  get  up  names,  etc.,  I'd 
forgotten."  And  in  September  of  the  previous  year:  "  As  for  Pen- 
dennis,  I  began  upon  No.  7  to-day,  and  found  a  picture  which  was 


264         Militant  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeerap 

To  the  last  he  would,  from  time  to  time,  attend  the 
weekly  dinners,  where  a  place  was  always  kept  for  him ; 
and  when  he  died,  it  was  in  the  columns  of  this  journal 
that  was  chronicled  the  most  sincere  regret  at  the  great 
loss  suffered,  not  by  the  death  of  the  novelist,  but  by 
the  death  of  the  comrade  and  friend,  the  man.  On  the 
sad  Christmas  Eve  "Ponny"  Mayhew  brought  the  fatal 
news  to  the  jovial  Punch  party.  "I'll  tell  you  what  we'll 
do,"  he  said,  "we'll  sing  the  dear  old  boy's  Mahogany 
Tree;  he'd  like  it."  Accordingly  they  all  stood  up, 
and  with  such  memory  of  the  words  as  each  possessed, 
and  a  catching  of  the  breath  here  and  there  by  about  all 
of  them,  the  song  was  sung. 

In  the  obituary  notice  further  honour  was  paid. 
"While  generous  tributes,"  it  runs,  "are  everywhere 
being  paid  to  the  genius  of  him  who  has  been  suddenly 
called  away  in  the  fulness  of  his  power  and  the  maturity 
of  his  fame,  some  who  have  for  many  years  enjoyed  the 
advantage  of  his  assistance  and  the  delight  of  his  society, 
would  simply  record  that  they  have  lost  a  dear  friend. 
At  an  early  period  in  the  history  of  the  periodical  he 
became  a  contributor  to  its  pages,  and  he  long  continued 
to  enrich  them ;  and  though  of  late  he  has  ceased  to  give 
other  aid  than  suggestions  and  advice,  he  was  a  constant 
member  of  our  council,  and  sat  with  us  on  the  eighth 
day  from  that  which  has  saddened  England's  Christmas. 
Let  the  brilliancy  of  his  trained  intellect,  the  terrible 
strength  of  his  satire,  the  subtlety  of  his  wit,  the  rich- 
ness of  his  humour,  and  the  catholic  range  of  his  calm 

perfectly  new,  and  a  passage  which  I  had  as  utterly  forgotten  as  if  I 
had  never  read  or  written  it.  This  shortness  of  memory  frightens 
me,  and  makes  me  have  gloomy  anticipations.  Will  poor  Annie  have 
to  nurse  an  old  imbecile  of  a  father  some  day,  who  will  ramble  inco- 
herently about  old  days,  and  people  whom  he  used  to  love? " 


ant>  "ipuncb"  265 

wisdom,  be  themes  for  others;  the  mourning  friends  who 
inscribe  these  lines  to  his  memory  think  of  the  affectionate 
nature,  the  cheerful  companionship,  the  large  heart  and 
the  open  hand,  the  simple  courteousness,  the  endearing 
frankness  of  a  brave,  true,  honest  gentleman,  whom  no 
pen  but  his  own  could  depict  as  those  who  knew  him 
most  desire." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  true  compliment  Thackeray 
paid  Pujich  was  not  less  magnificent:  "When  the  future 
inquirer  shall  take  up  your  volumes,  or  a  bundle  of 
French  plays,  and  contrast  the  performance  of  your 
booth  with  that  of  the  Parisian  theatre,  he  won't  fail  to 
remark  how  different  they  are,  and  what  different  objects 
we  admire  or  satirise.  As  for  your  morality,  sir,  it  does 
not  become  me  to  compliment  you  to  your  venerable 
face ;  but  permit  me  to  say  that  there  never  was  before 
published  so  many  volumes  that  contained  so  much  cause 
for  laughing,  and  so  little  for  blushing,  so  many  jokes, 
and  so  little  harm.  Why,  sir,  say  even  your  modesty, 
which  astonishes  me  more  and  more  every  time  I  regard 
you,  is  calculated,  and  not  a  virtue  naturally  inherent  in 
you,  that  very  fact  would  argue  for  the  high  sense  of  the 
public  morality  among  us.  We  will  laugh  in  the  com- 
pany of  our  wives  and  children;  we  will  tolerate  no 
indecorum ;  we  like  that  our  matrons  and  girls  should  be 
pure." 

During  his  long  connection  with  the  paper,  he 
regarded  as  his  most  important  rival  Douglas  Jerrold — 
witty,  brilliant  Jerrold,  who  is  little  more  than  a  name 
to  most  of  us  now.  When,  on  receiving  his  early  num- 
ber of  the  journal,  he  would  hastily  tear  off  the  wrapper, 
it  was  to  see  "what  young  Douglas  has  to  say  this  week," 
and  he  would  remain  for  some  moments  reading  the 


266         TKHUliam  /iDafeepeace  Ubacfeerag 

chapter  of  the  Caudle  Lectures,  or  of  Miss  Robinson 
Crusoe,  or  whatever  the  contribution  might  be,  before 
turning  to  the  remaining  contents. 

It  was  of  Jerrold,  who  posed  as  a  democrat,  that 
Thackeray,  on  noticing  at  the  Earl  of  Carlisle's  a  pre- 
sentation copy  of  one  of  his  (Jerrold's)  books,  the 
inscription  of  which  ran,  "To  the  Right  Hon.  the  Earl 
of  Carlisle,  K.G.,  K.C.B.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,"  remarked, 
"Ah!  this  is  the  sort  of  style  in  which  your  rigid, 
uncompromising  radical  always  toadies  the  great."* 
Jerrold,  for  his  part,  did  not  understand  Thackeray.  "I 
have  known  Thackeray  for  eighteen  years,"  he  com- 
plained, "and  I  don't  know  him  yet." 

It  was  Jerrold,  Mr.  Cuthbert  Bradley  says,  and  not 
Arcedeckne,  who  laconically  criticised  Thackeray's  first 
public  reading  of  the  Humourists  to  Mark  Lemon :  "Very 
good.  But  wants  a  piano."  And  after  Thackeray  had 
stood  sponsor  to  a  child,  exclaimed,  "Good  Lord,  Thack- 
eray, I  hope  you  didn't  present  the  child  with  your  own 
mug."  A  silly  rumour  got  afloat  about  the  period  of 
what  was  called  "Papal  aggression,"  that  Thackeray, 
the  staunchest  of  Protestant  Broad  Churchmen,  had  a 

*The  following  extract  from  Taine's  Notes  on  England  is  interest- 
ing, as  showing  Thackeray's  feeling  on  the  subject  of  aristocracy- 
worship^  I  suspect,  however,  that  the  last  sentence  was  said  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye: — 

"I  had  a  conversation,"  Taine  wrote,  "with  Thackeray,  whose 
name  I  mention  because  he  is  dead,  and  because  his  ideas  and  his 
conversation  are  to  be  found  in  his  books.  He  confirmed  orally  all 
that  he  had  written  about  the  snobbish  spirit.  I  told  him  a  trivial 
circumstance  of  which  I  was  an  eye-witness.  At  a  charity  meeting 
the  speaker  set  forth  to  the  audience  the  importance  of  the  work 

undertaken  by  remarking  that  the  Marquis  of ,"  a  person  in  such 

a  situation,  "had  kindly  consented  to  take  the  chair."  Thackeray 
assured  me  that  platitudes  like  these  are  common,  .  .  .  and  that  great 
people  are  so  habituated  to  see  people  on  their  knees  before  them, 
that  they  are  shocked  when  they  meet  a  man  of  independent 
demeanor.  I  myself,"  he  added,  "am  now  regarded  as  a  suspicious 
character." 


an&  "jpuncb"  267 

leaning  towards  the  Church  of  Rome.  "Why,  they're 
Romanizing  old  Thackeray,"  said  some  one  to  Jerrold. 
"I  hope,"  replied  the  caustic  wit,  "they'll  begin  at  his 
nose." 

They  said  many  sharp  and  stinging  words  to  one 
another  and  of  one  another,  but  I  think  a  really  good 
understanding  existed  between  them.  In  one  of  his 
drawings  Thackeray  has  represented  Jerrold  and  himself 
in  a  railway  carriage  listening,  with  most  amusing 
expressions  on  their  faces,  to  the  other  two  occupants 
discussing,  with  quite  sublime  ignorance,  the  members 
of  the  Punch  staff — this  does  not  show  ill-feeling.  And 
it  was  an  overt  act  of  friendship  when  Thackeray  ran  up 
to  town  one  day  from  Leamington,  where  he  was  lectur- 
ing, and  on  his  return  announced  to  the  astonished  Mr. 
Hodder,  "We've  got  the  little  man  in" — and  then, 
noticing  his  bewilderment,  explained,  "Why,  Jerrold: 
we've  elected  him  a  member  of  the  Reform  Club." 
Some  difficulties,  known  to  the  initiated  as  "black- 
balls," had  been  expected  when  Jerrold  was  balloted 
for,  as  his  wit  had  made  him  enemies,  and  so  Thackeray 
had  gone  up  to  town  to  use  his  influence  to  secure  his 
election.  Again,  Thackeray  was  honestly  pleased  when 
he  heard  of  the  increased  popularity  to  which  Lloyd's 
Newspaper  attained  under  Jerrold's  editorship,  and  then 
characteristically  declared,  "I  am  quite  pleased  with 
myself  at  finding  myself  pleased  at  men  getting  on  in 
the  world."  At  Jerrold's  death,  too,  he  co-operated 
with  Dickens  to  raise  a  fund  for  the  widow  and  chil- 
dren, contributing  for  his  share  the  lecture  on  Weekday 
Preachers,  in  which  he  made  special  and  admirable  refer- 
ence to  Jerrold  and  his  writings.  This  lecture  was  deliv- 
ered on  July  22,  1857,  tne  day  after  the  declaration  of 


268         William  /IDafeepeace 

the  poll  of  the  Oxford  election  in  which  Thackeray  was 
defeated,  and  the  audience  were  on  the  alert  for  some 
allusion  to  that  event,  and  were  not  disappointed,  for 
the  opening  words  of  the  discourse,  delivered  with  com- 
ical solemnity  were,  "Walking  yesterday  in  the  High 
Street  of  a  certain  ancient  city.  .  .  ."  "So  began 
the  lecturer,"  says  the  Times,  in  its  account  of  the  lec- 
ture, "and  was  interrupted  by  a  storm  of  laughter  that 
deferred  for  some  moments  the  completion  of  the  sen- 
tence." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

LECTURES   IN   ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA— THE 
ENGLISH   HUMOURISTS— ESMOND 


CHAPTER   XVI 

LECTURES   IN    ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA— THE 
ENGLISH   HUMOURISTS— ESMOND 

THE  discussion  of  Thackeray's  connection  with  Punch 
made  me  drop  the  thread  of  my  story  of  his  life. 
I  must  now  return  to  the  year  1850,  when  he  published 
Rebecca  and  Rowena.  A  Romance  upon  Romance.  By  M. 
A.  Titmarsh — undoubtedly  the  finest  burlesque  of  its 
kind  in  English  literature.  A  few  months  later  appeared 
the  Christmas  Book,  The  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,  which 
produced  the  now  famous  criticism  in  the  Times,  written 
probably  by  Samuel  Phillips,  the  author  of  the  now 
almost-forgotten  novel  Caleb  Stukely*  The  -  review  was 
absurd  in  the  highest  degree,  and  the  language  inflated 
to  the  verge  of  imbecility.  Take,  for  example,  this  one 
sentence,  which  is  really  a  treasure — the  italics  are  mine ! 
"To  our,  perhaps,  unphilosophical  taste  the  aspiration 
towards  sentimental  perfection  of  another  popular  author 
are  infinitely  preferable  to  these  sardonic  divings  after  the 
pearl  of  truth  whose  lustre  is  eclipsed  in  the  display  of  the 
diseased  oyster. ' ' 

Thackeray,  who  with  all  his  scorn  for  the  ridiculous 
and  the  outrt,  usually  ignored  such  criticism,  for  once 
let  himself  go,  and  replied  in  the  preface  to  the  second 

*Mr.  Sala  has  somewhere  stated  that  Thackeray  believed  the 
review  to  have  been  written  by  Charles  Lamb  Kenny,  but  Mr. 
Vizetelly  declared  that  the  novelist  always  spoke  of  it  in  his  hearing 
as  being  the  work  of  Samuel  Phillips. 

271 


272         TKnuifam  flDafeepeace  tlbacfeeras 

edition  of  The  Kickleburys,  in  so  scathing  and  severe, 
though  so  intensely  amusing,  a  manner,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  believe  it  came  from  his  pen. 

"I  remember,"  Mr.  Vizetelly,  who  had  engraved  the 
drawings  and  printed  the  work,  has  written,  "I  remem- 
ber Mr.  Thackeray  calling  upon  me,  accompanied  by 
his  fidus  Achates,  Mr.  J.  Higgins  (Jacob  Omnium},  of 
colossal  stature  like  himself,  but  of  more  stalwart  build, 
and  handing  me  the  memorable  preface  for  the  second 
edition,  An  Essay  on  Thunder  and  Small  Beer,  in  reply 
to  the  recent  Times  criticism  on  the  book.  Thackeray 
was  in  high  glee  over  the  circumstance  of  a  second  edi- 
tion being  called  for  at  the  very  moment  the  Times  was 
launching  its  little  thunderbolt;  and  in  his  excitement  he 
read  several  sentences  of  the  preface  aloud  in  which  he 
thought  he  had  made  his  keenest  thrusts.  The  whole 
was  apparently  a  mere  friendly  passage-at-arms,  as  not 
long  after  the  publication  of  Thackeray's  amusing  retort, 
which  to  the  author's  delight  was  copied  in  several 
papers,  his  May-Day  Ode,  on  the  opening  of  the  1851 
Exhibition,  came  out  in  the  Times."  We  know,  how- 
ever, that  Thackeray  had  no  intention,  until  Punch 
refused  to  print  the  Ode,  of  sending  it  to  the  Times, 
and  it  is  exceedingly  doubtful  if  the  Thunderer  ever  did 
forgive  him,  for  it  "slated"  Esmond  in  a  most  malicious 
and  unjust  way,  gave  a  shorter  notice  of  his  death  and 
funeral  than  any  other  paper,  and  was  the  only  daily  of 
any  importance  that  did  not  insert  a  leading  article  on 
the  great  loss  sustained  by  the  world  of  letters. 

"You  must  be  thinking  of  coming  back  to  Pimlico 
soon,"  Thackeray  wrote  on  April  29,  1851,  to  Mrs. 
Brookfield,  "for  the  lectures  are  to  begin  on  the  I5th. 


»  s  eg  o      > 
lag**      g 


a.* 


~*5-a§    TS  "§ 

!|s™"S        F    ? 

as  ^v  ~  n  **•          S.  *S 

w  •?  -1  S.  «•          S  § 

^83  B  M  £"  ^  " 

S*  ^ 


S      »  5"     •<•  - 


w     s-?o.       ^ 

T<£-     -S 

rt 


^o   : 
?•         '- 


Xectures  in  England  ant>  Bmerica       273 

I  tried  the  great  room  at  Willis's  yesterday,  and  recited 
part  of  the  multiplication  table  to  a  waiter  at  the  oppo- 
site end,  so  as  to  try  the  voice.  He  said  he  could  hear 
perfectly,  and  I  daresay  he  could,  but  the  thoughts 
somehow  swell  and  amplify  with  that  high-pitched  voice 
and  elaborate  distinctness.  As  I  perceive  how  poets 
become  selfish,*  I  see  how  orators  become  humbugs, 
and  selfish  in  their  way,  too,  absorbed  in  that  selfish  pur- 
suit, and  turning  of  periods.  It  is  curious  to  take  these 
dips  into  a  life  new  to  me  as  yet,  and  try  it  and  see  how 
I  like  it,  isn't  it?" 

The  lectures  referred  to  are,  of  course,  the  series  on 
The  English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
Anthony  Trollope  has  devoted  two  pages  of  his  short 
biographical  chapter  to  the  discussion  of  the  effect  that 
these  lectures  might  have  had  upon  Thackeray's  fame  as 
a  writer.  He  argued  for  and  against  the  indignity  of 
the  proceedings,  and  finally  concluded  that  the  money 
made  by  the  new  venture  was  "earned  honestly  and  with 
the  full  approval  of  the  world  around  him."  Well,  per- 
haps it  was !  Even  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair  was  not 
likely  to  imperil  his  dignity  to  any  great  extent  by  writing, 
or  by  reading  to  an  audience,  The  English  Humourists 
or  The  Four  Georges,  which  (in  spite  of  certain  objec- 
tions raised  at  the  time  against  the  latter)  have  both 
taken  their  place  in  the  classical  literature  of  our  century. 

*In  this  same  letter,  apropos  of  the  May-Day  Ode,  he  wrote:  "  I 
don't  wonder  at  poets  being  selfish,  such  as  Wordsworth  and  Alfred. 
I  have  been  for  five  days  a  poet,  and  have  thought  and  remembered 
nothing  else  but  myself,  and  my  rhymes,  and  my  measure.  If  some- 
body had  come  to  me  and  said, '  Mrs.  Brookfield  has  just  had  her 
arm  cut  off,'  I  should  have  gone  on  with  'Queen  of  Innumerable  Isles, 
tidumtidy,  tidumtidy,'  and  not  stirred  from  the  chair.  The  children 
and  nobody  haven't  seen  me  except  at  night,  and  now  (though  the 
work  is  just  done)  ...  I  hardly  see  the  paper  before  me,  so  utterly 
beat,  nervous,  bilious,  and  overcome  do  I  feel." 


274         William  /iDafeepeace 

The  raison  d'etre  of  the  lectures  was  the  desire  to 
make  a  good  provision  for  his  wife  and  daughters ;  and 
the  subject  selected  seems  only  natural  since  his  great 
fondness  for  the  Queen  Anne  writers  dates  back  to  the 
early  years  of  his  life.  Allusions  to  Steele  and  Addison 
and  Pope  and  Swift,  and  Stella,  Venessa,  Dr.  Johnson, 
Richard  Savage,  and  others,  real  or  unreal,  may  be  found 
in  some  of  his  earliest  writings,  especially  in  Catherine 
and  Barry  Lyndon. 

The  first  lecture  was  eventually  postponed  until  the 
afternoon  of  May  22,  and  the  others  were  delivered  on 
May  29,  June  12,  19,  26,  and  July  3.  The  price  for  a 
reserved  seat  for  the  whole  course  was  two  guineas, 
seven-and-sixpence  was  charged  for  an  unreserved  seat 
for  a  single  lecture,  and  the  audiences  included  many  of 
the  most  famous  persons  in  London.  Hallam  attended 
on  each  occasion.  So  did  Macaulay,  who  referred  to  one 
of  them  in  his  Diary:  "Margaret  came  to  take  me  to 
Thackeray's  [third]  lecture.  He  is  full  of  humour  and 
imagination,  and  I  only  wish  that  these  lectures  may 
answer,  both  in  the  way  of  fame  and  money.  He  told 
me,  as  I  was  going  out,  that  the  scheme  had  done  won- 
ders for  him ;  and  I  told  him,  and  from  my  heart,  that  I 
wished  he  had  made  ten  times  as  much."  Carlyle  and 
his  wife  went,  Harriet  Martineau  too,  and  Monckton 
Milnes,  Dickens,  and  Lord  Carlisle,  besides  Charlotte 
Bronte. 

Thackeray,  always  averse  to  public  speaking,  very 
naturally  dreaded  the  ordeal,  and  his  nervousness  during 
the  half-hour  previous  to  the  delivery  of  the  first  lecture 
was  really  painful.  "Going  thither  before  the  time  for 
his  beginning,"  Mrs.  Kemble  afterwards  wrote  in  her 


lectures  in  Enolanfc  ant>  Hmerfca       275 

Reminiscences,  "I  found  him  standing  like  a  forlorn, 
disconsolate  giant  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  gazing 
about  him.  'Oh,  Lord,'  he  exclaimed,  as  he  shook 
hands  with  me,  'I'm  sick  at  my  stomach  with  fright.' 
I  spoke  some  words  of  encouragement  to  him,  and  was 
going  away,  but  he  held  my  hand  like  a  scared  child, 
crying,  'Oh,  don't  leave  me!'  'But,'  said  I,  'Thackeray, 
you  mustn't  stand  here.  Your  audience  are  beginning 
to  come  in,'  and  I  drew  him  from  the  middle  of  his 
chairs  and  benches,  which  were  beginning  to  be  occupied, 
into  the  retiring-room  adjoining  the  lecture-room,  my 
own  readings  having  made  me  perfectly  familiar  with 
both.  Here  he  began  pacing  up  and  down,  literally 
wringing  his  hands  in  nervous  distress.  'Now,'  said  I, 
'what  shall  I  do?  Shall  I  stay  with  you  till  you  begin, 
or  shall  I  go,  and  leave  you  alone  to  collect  yourself?' 
'Oh,'  he  said,  'if  I  could  only  get  at  that  confounded 
thing  [his  MS.]  to  have  a  last  look  at  it!'  'Where  is 
it?'  said  I.  'Oh,  in  the  next  room  on  the  reading-desk.' 
'Well,'  said  I,  'if  you  don't  like  to  go  in  and  get  it,  I'll 
fetch  it  for  you.'  And  remembering  well  the  position 
of  my  reading-table,  which  had  been  close  to  the  door 
of  the  retiring-room,  I  darted  in,  hoping  to  snatch  the 
manuscript  without  attracting  the  attention  of  the  audi- 
ence, with  which  the  room  was  already  nearly  full.  I 
had  been  used  to  deliver  my  reading  seated  at  a  very  low 
table,  but  my  friend  Thackeray  gave  his  lectures  stand- 
ing, and  had  a  reading-desk  placed  on  the  platform, 
adapted  to  his  own  very  tall  stature,  so  that  when  I 
came  to  get  his  manuscript  it  was  almost  above  my  head. 
Though  rather  disconcerted,  I  was  determined  not  to  go 
back  without  it,  and  so  made  a  half-jump  and  a  clutch  at 


276         TIGlilliam  flDafeepeace 

the  book,  when  every  leaf  of  it  (they  were  not  fastened 
together)  came  fluttering  separately  down  about  me.  I 
hardly  know  what  I  did,  but  I  think  I  must  have  gone 
nearly  on  all  fours,  in  my  agony  to  gather  up  the  scat- 
tered leaves,  and,  retreating  with  them,  held  them  out  in 
dismay  to  poor  Thackeray,  crying,  'Oh,  look,  look,  what 
a  dreadful  thing  I  have  done!'  'My  dear  soul,'  he 
said,  'you  couldn't  have  done  better  for  me.  I  have 
just  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  wait  here,  and  it  will  take 
me  about  that  to  page  this  again,  and  it's  the  best  thing 
in  the  world  that  could  have  happened.'  With  which 
infinite  kindness  he  comforted  me,  for  I  was  all  but  cry- 
ing, at  having,  as  I  thought,  increased  his  distress  and 
troubles.  So  I  left  him  to  give  the  first  of  that  brilliant 
course  of  literary  historical  essays  with  which  he  en- 
chanted and  instructed  countless  audiences  in  England 
and  America." 

Mrs.  Ritchie  was  there  with  her  grandmother  and  her 
younger  sister,  and  she  has  recorded  her  impressions: 
how  the  room  was  crowded,  and  how  she  did  not  recog- 
nise her  father's  voice  when  he  began,  "In  treating  of 
the  English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  it 
is  of  the  men  rather  than  of  their  works,"  etc.,  though 
soon  it  softened  and  deepened,  until  it  sounded  again 
like  the  familiar  tones.  She  remembers,  when  it  was 
all  over,  the  applause  of  the  audience  crowding  up  to 
shake  hands  with  the  lecturer,  the  proud  and  happy  look 
of  her  grandmother,  and  the  drive  home,  when  her 
father,  in  high  spirits,  made  jokes,  and  they  all  laughed 
and  were  very  jolly. 

It  is  necessary  to  pause  here  a  moment  to  speak  of 
the  style  in  which  the  lectures  were  delivered.  I  can 
only  offer  an  impression  based  upon  the  study  of  the 


Xectures  in  Englant)  an&  Hmerica       277 

letters  and  reports  of  various  distinguished  critical  mem- 
bers of  the  audience  that  Thackeray  appeared  on  the 
platform  simply  as  a  well-bred  gentleman  reading,  to  a 
large  circle  of  acquaintances,  certain  essays  with  which 
he  was  well  acquainted. 

Mr.  Marzials  says  "the  secret  [charm]  lay  in  an 
admirable  quiet  delivery,  that  without  due  emphasis  or 
pause  for  effect,  gave  the  hearer  the  full  value  of  every 
sentence."  Charlotte  Bronte  wrote  that  the  lecture  she 
heard  was  "delivered  with  a  finished  taste  and  ease 
which  is  felt  but  cannot  be  described,"  and  that  she 
"admired  the  gentlemanlike  ease,  the  quiet  humour,  the 
taste,  the  talent,  the  simplicity,  and  the  originality  of 
the  lecture";  while  another  lady — Caroline  Fox — 
thought  he  read  in  "a  definite,  dry  manner,  but  makes 
you  understand  what  he  is  about." 

Longfellow  recorded  that  the  lectures  were  "pleasant 
to  hear  from  that  soft,  deep,  sonorous  voice, "  and  Motley, 
who,  some  years  later,  heard  a  lecture  on  The  Four 
Georges,  wrote:  "I  was  much  impressed  with  the  quiet, 
graceful  ease  with  which  he  [Thackeray]  read — just  a 
few  notes  above  the  conversational  level, — but  never 
rising  into  the  declamatory.  This  light  in  hand  manner 
suits  well  the  delicate  hovering  rather  than  superficial 
style  of  the  composition.  He  skims  lightly  over  the 
surface  of  the  long  epoch,  throwing  out  a  sketch  here, 
exhibiting  a  characteristic  trait  there,  and  sprinkling  about 
a  few  anecdotes,  portraits,  and  historical  allusions,  run- 
ning about  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe, 
moving  and  mocking  the  sensibilities  in  a  breath,  in  a 
way  which  I  should  say  was  the  perfection  of  lecturing 
to  high-bred  audiences."  Finally,  when  he  went  to 
America,  the  representative  of  the  New  York  Evening 


278         muiiam  /IDafcepeace  Ubacfceras 

Post  expressed  himself  as  follows:  "His  [Thackeray's] 
voice  is  a  superb  tenor,  and  possesses  that  pathetic 
tremble  which  is  so  effective  in  what  is  called  emotive 
eloquence,  while  his  delivery  was  as  well  suited  to  the 
communication  he  had  to  make  as  could  well  have  been 
imagined.  His  enunciation  is  perfect.  Every  word  he 
uttered  might  have  been  heard  in  the  remotest  quarters 
of  the  room,  yet  he  scarcely  lifted  his  voice  above  a  col- 
loquial tone.  The  most  striking  feature  in  his  whole 
manner  was  the  utter  absence  of  affectation  of  any  kind. 
He  did  not  permit  himself  to  appear  conscious  that  he 
was  an  object  of  peculiar  interest  in  the  audience,  neither 
was  he  guilty  of  the  greater  error  of  not  appearing  to 
care  whether  they  were  interested  in  him  or  not." 

As  all  the  opinions  I  have  seen  are  of  this  tenor, 
and  as  there  are  no  dissentient  voices,  it  is  needless  for 
me  to  add  anything  more.  When,  however,  the  differ- 
ent styles  of  the  lectures  by  Thackeray  and  Dickens  are 
compared,  it  should  be  remembered  that  Thackeray's 
audience,  especially  in  London,  consisted  entirely  of  the 
most  highly  cultured  class,  for  a  discourse  on  literary 
men  of  the  eighteenth  century  would  naturally  not  appeal 
to  the  comparatively  unintellectual  in  the  same  way 
as  a  dramatic  reading  from  Nicholas  Nickleby  or  Dombey 
and  Son.  The  two  performances  must,  of  very  necessity, 
have  borne  to  each  other  the  same  relationship  as  now- 
adays do  the  pieces  performed  at  the  Lyceum  and  the 
Adelphi  or  Drury  Lane  theatres;  each  is  admirable  of 
its  kind — and  there  the  comparison  ends. 

As  soon  as  the  course  was  delivered  Thackeray,  with 
his  daughters,  went  abroad.  "Traveling  as  Pater- 
familias, with  a  daughter  in  each  hand,  I  don't  like  to 
speak  to  our  country-folks ;  but  give  myself  airs,  rather, 


Xectures  in  England  an&  Hmerica       279 

and  keep  off  from  them,"  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Brookfield. 
"If  I  were  alone  I  should  make  up  to  everybody.  You 
don't  see  things  so  well  ft  trots  as  you  do  alone:  you  are 
an  English  gentleman ;  you  are  shy  of  queer-looking  or 
queer-speaking  people ;  you  are  in  the  coupt ';  you  are  an 
earl; — confound  your  impudence,  if  you  had  ^5,000  a 
year  and  were  Tompam,  Esq.,  you  could  not  behave 
yourself  more  high  and  mightily.  Ah !  I  recollect  ten 
years  back  a  poor  devil,  looking  wistfully  at  the  few 
napoleons  in  his  gousset,  and  giving  himself  no  airs  at  all. 
He  was  a  better  fellow  than  the  one  you  know  perhaps; 
not  that  our  characters  alter,  only  they  develop  and  our 
minds  grow  grey  and  bald,  etc.  I  was  a  boy  ten  years 
ago,  breathing  out  my  simple  cries  in  The  Great  Hog- 
garty  Diamond. 

It  was  during  this  Continental  ramble  that  he  revisited 
Weimar,  and  he  saw  again  both  Madame  Goethe  and 
Herr  Weissenborne,  who  had  taught  him  German,  and 
who  had  never  lost  sight  of  him,  and  knew  of  his  fame, 
and  had  read  his  books.  He  enjoyed  his  holiday:  it 
was  not  very  gay,  perhaps,  but  his  children  were  pleased, 
and  that  more  than  contented  him.  "As  for  my  dear 
young  ones,"  he  said  in  a  letter,  "I  am  as  happy  with 
them  as  possible :  Annie  is  a  fat  lump  of  pure  gold,  the 
kindest,  dearest  creature,  as  well  as  a  wag  of  the  first 
water.  It  is  an  immense  blessing  that  Heaven  has  given 
me  such  an  artless,  affectionate  companion.  .  .  .  Oh ! 
may  she  never  fall  in  love  absurdly,  and  marry  an  ass! 
If  she  will  but  make  her  father  her  confidant,  I  think 
the  donkey  won't  long  keep  his  ground  in  her  heart." 

But  soon  he  was  compelled  to  return  to  London.  He 
had  indeed  written  to  Mr.  Hayward  on  May  23:  "The 
truth  is  that  the  lectures  won't  do.  They  were  all 


280         Militant  /IDafeepeace 

friends,  and  a  packed  house,  though,  to  be  sure,  it  goes 
to  a  man's  heart  to  find  among  his  friends,  such  men  as 
you  and  Kinglake  and  Venables,  Higgins,  Rawlinson, 
Carlyle,  Ashburton,  Hallam,  Milman,  Macaulay,  Wilber- 
force,  looking  on."  But  the  lectures  did  do.  They 
were  an  undoubted  success — "there  is  quite  a  furore  for 
them,"  Charlotte  Bronte  wrote — and  he  had  been  invited 
to  repeat  them  by  Young  Men's  Associations  and  Liter- 
ary Clubs  in  all  parts  of  the  country.  America,  too, 
made  offers  that  were  too  tempting  to  be  summarily 
refused,  and  which  later  on  were  conditionally  accepted, 
though  Thackeray  could  not  be  induced  to  sign  anything 
until  he  was  actually  in  New  York.  Friends,  especially 
Sir  Edward  Hamley,  remonstrated  with  him,  and  argued 
that  a  man  of  such  talents  should  not  spend  his  time  in 
such  a  manner;  and  I  think  Thackeray  agreed  with  them. 
He  told  Lady  Cullom  that  no  one  could  conceive  how  it 
mortified  him  to  have  to  make  money  by  lecturing,  and 
once,  when  speaking  of  Carlyle,  he  exclaimed:  "He 
would  not  go  round  making  a  show  of  himself,  as  I  am 
doing.  But  he  has  lectured !  He  did  it  once  and  was 
done  with  it." 

Still,  money  had  to  be  made,  an  hour's  reading  was 
often  as  profitable  as  a  fortnight's  work — and  so  eventu- 
ally arrangements  were  made  for  him  to  deliver  the 
Humourists  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  at  Edinburgh, 
Manchester,  Liverpool,  and  many  other  places.* 

As  soon  as  it  was  announced  that  he  would  visit  Edin- 
burgh Dr.  John  Brown  (who  one  day  astonished  the 
world  by  dedicating  the  second  series  of  Hor(E  Subsecivce 

*" Thackeray  says  he  is  getting  tired  of  being  witty  and  of  the 
great  world,"  Fitzgerald  wrote  in  1851;  "he  is  now  gone  to  deliver 
his  Lectures  at  Edinburgh,  having  already  given  them  at  Oxford  and 
Cambridge." 


to  Gladstone  and  Andrew  Dick  and  Thackeray  and  Rus- 
kin — a  strange  quartet)  hastened  to  invite  the  lecturer 
to  stay  with  him  while  fulfilling  his  engagements  in  the 
city.  Thackeray's  reply  (which  I  take  from  Mr.  Peddie's 
Recollections  of  Dr.  John  Brown)  gives  an  idea  of  his 
system  of  work,  when  he  has  a  system  at  all. 

"KENSINGTON,  October  9,  1851. 

MY  DEAR  DR.  BROWN, — I  find  your  letters  on  my 
return  home  from  the  country,  and  thank  you  for  them 
and  your  kindnesses  all.  I  don't  know  yet  whether  it 
will  be  December  or  January  when  I  shall  behold  Rut- 
land Street  and  my  friends  there.  I  want  to  go  to  Cam- 
bridge in  November  if  the  scheme  is  feasible,  but  can't 
move  in  the  matter  until  the  vacation  is  over,  and  my 
friends  in  Cambridge  are  returned  thither.  The  Gates 
of  Liverpool  and  Manchester  are  also  open  to  me,  and 
I  shall  take  these  places  either  before  or  after  Edinburgh, 
as  seems  best  to  my  advisers.  Until  the  men  are  back 
in  Cambridge  in  about  a  week,  I  can't  therefore  say 
when  the  Titmarsh-Van  will  begin  its  career.  But  as  I 
don't  intend  to  touch  the  proceeds  of  the  lectures 
myself  (beyond  actual  travelling  charges)  and  resolutely 
invest  all  the  winnings  for  my  two  girls  and  their  poor 
mother,  I'm  bolder  than  I  should  be  otherwise  in  the 
business,  and  determined  to  carry  it  through  with  brazen 
resolution.  In  order  to  this  end  you  see  I  must  work  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  and  am  under  stringent  engage- 
ments to  write  a  novel  which  will  come  out  as  I  sail  for 
America.  Now  to  do  this,  I  must  have  my  own  way,  my 
own  lodgings,  factotum,  liberty,  cigar  after  breakfast, 
etc.,  without  all  of  which  I  can't  work;  and  the  forenoon 
being  spent  in  study,  the  afternoon  in  healthful  exercise, 
then  comes  the  evening  when  we  will  trouble  Dr.  Brown 


282         TKHtlltam  /iDafeepeace 

to  go  down  for  that,  etc.,  etc.  You  have  brought  me 
into  very  good  company  in  print.  I  daresay  there  are 
good  fish  still  in  the  sea. 

"With  my  best  thanks  and  regards  to  Mrs.  Brown, 
"Believe  me,  yours  very  faithfully, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

The  novel  at  which  he  was  working  with  such  assidu- 
ity was  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  Esquire:  a  Colonel 
in  the  service  of  Queen  Anne,  written  by  himself.  The 
half  title  runs:  Esmond,  a  Story  of  Queen  Anne's  Reign. 
By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

It  was  to  enable  him  to  devote  himself  to  this  great 
work  that  he  ceased  to  contribute  to  the  periodicals,  for 
Esmond,  unlike  Vanity  Fair  and  Pendennis,  was  to  be 
published,  not  in  monthly  parts,  but  as  a  whole,  in 
three  volumes.*  It  also  required  much  collateral  read- 
ing, and  Mr.  Eyre  Crowe,  who  from  April,  1851,  was 
Thackeray's  secretary  and  amanuensis,  has  related  how 
the  author,  with  him  in  attendance,  spent  much  time  in 
the  Library  at  the  British  Museum,  where,  after  much 
preliminary  reading  and  research,  in  a  room  allowed  him 
for  the  purpose  by  Sir  Anthony  Panizzi,  he  dictated  the 
General  Webb  and  Marlborough  and  Cadogan  incident. 
More  of  the  book  was  written  at  the  Athenaeum  Club, 
where  the  Secretary  of  Committee  placed  at  his  disposal 
the  use  of  one  of  the  side  rooms  of  the  large  library ;  and 
much  was  done  at  the  Bedford  Hotel  while  his  children 
were  with  his  mother,  and  Major  Smyth  in  Paris,  and 
his  own  house  was  in  the  painters'  hands. 

*"I  have  given  up,  and  only  had  for  a  day  or  two,  the  notion  for 
the  book  in  numbers;  it  is  much  too  grave  and  sad  for  that," 
Thackeray  wrote  in  a  letter  quoted  by  Mrs.  Ritchie  in  the  Biograph- 
ical Introduction  to  Esmond. 


^Lectures  in  JEnglanb  ant>  Hmerica       283 

While  Esmond  was  in  course  of  composition,  Mr. 
Vizetelly,  on  the  part  of  Messrs.  Smith  &  Elder,  offered 
Thackeray  ;£i,ooo  to  write  a  novel  for  them.  Subse- 
quently Mr.  George  Smith  himself  called  and  repeated 
the  offer.  ''There's  a  young  fellow  just  come,"  Thack- 
eray said,  as  he  burst  into  the  room  where  his  daughters 
were  sitting.  "He  has  brought  a  thousand  pounds  in 
his  pocket;  he  has  made  me  an  offer  for  my  book:  it's 
the  most  spirited,  handsome  offer.  I  scarcely  like  to 
take  him  at  his  word:  he's  hardly  more  than  a  boy;  his 
name  is  George  Smith ;  he  is  waiting  there  now,  and  I 
must  go  back."  The  offer  was  ultimately  accepted, 
and  henceforth  Messrs.  Smith  &  Elder  became  his  pub- 
lishers-in-chief. 

Once  before  Mr.  Vizetelly  had  made  Thackeray  an 
offer  on  behalf  of  a  publishing  firm.  Mr.  Bougie,  in 
1846  or  the  following  year,  had  commenced  to  issue  a 
series  of  brochures  called  Social  Zoologies,  the  first  num- 
ber of  which,  The  Gent,  by  Albert  Smith,  had  been  phe- 
nomenally successful.  It  was  determined  to  have  the 
best  writers  obtainable  for  future  volumes,  and  at  Mr. 
Bougie's  request  Mr.  Vizetelly  applied  to  Thackeray, 
with  whom  he  was  then  in  close  intercourse,  to  write  as 
many  volumes  as  he  chose  to  undertake  at  the  price  of  a 
hundred  guineas  each — this,  it  will  be  remembered,  was 
double  the  amount  he  was  receiving  for  a  monthly  part 
of  Vanity  Fair,  including  the  etching  of  a  couple  of 
plates.  "He  frankly  admitted  that  the  offer  was  a 
tempting  one,"  Mr.  Vizetelly  has  recorded,  "but  he 
eventually  declined  it,  by  reason,  it  was  said,  of  his  strong 
disinclination  to  ally  himself  with  anything  that  Albert 
Smith  was  connected  with.  .  .  .  Thackeray,  who 
had  an  abhorrence  of  things  vulgar,  found  Smith's  mau- 


284         TKHilliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfcerag 

vais  gout  more  than  he  could  stand.  When  brought  into 
contact  with  him  he  treated  him  with  contemptuous  tol- 
eration, showing  him  outward  civility ;  but  the  occasional 
observations  which  he  permitted  to  escape  him  disclosed 
his  true  sentiments  respecting  Albert's  mountebank 
ways."  This  statement  is,  however,  somewhat  dis- 
counted by  Albert  Smith  himself,  who,  writing  to 
George  Hodder,  mentions  that  he  had  spent  an  evening 
with  Thackeray  at  the  Cyder  Cellars,  staying  until  three 
in  the  morning,  and  that  "he  is  a  jolly  fellow,  and  no 
'High  Art'  about  him." 

But  to  revert  to  Esmond. 

' '  Thackeray  I  saw  for  ten  minutes, ' '  Fitzgerald  wrote 
on  June  8,  1852.  "He  was  just  in  the  agony  of  finish- 
ing a  novel:  which  has  arisen  out  of  the  reading  necessary 
for  the  Lectures,  and  relates  to  those  times — of  Queen 
Anne,  I  mean.  He  will  get  ;£i,ooo  for  his  novel.  He 
was  wanting  to  finish  it,  and  rush  off  to  the  Continent, 
I  think,  to  shake  off  the  fumes  of  it." 

The  book  was  actually  finished  on  Saturday,  May  28, 
when  Thackeray  gave  an  informal  and  friendly  dinner- 
party to  celebrate  the  occasion.  It  has  been  said  by 
Mr.  Vizetelly  that  the  publishers  had  expected  the  work 
would  relate  to  modern  times,  and  were  in  the  first 
instance  disappointed  with  Esmond;  but  that  the  sale 
(Mr.  Smith  Williams,  the  firm's  literary  adviser,  told 
him)  was  so  much  greater  than  had  been  expected,  that 
they  sent  the  author  a  cheque,  in  addition  to  the  pay- 
ment agreed  upon,  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 
Trollope,  on  the  other  hand,  said  that  Thackeray  com- 
plained to  him  that  the  public  did  not  read  the  book; 
and  this  is  perhaps  borne  out  by  the  following  extract 
from  a  letter  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  a  presentation 


***  A 


(vdb  kiA< 


rsu*<Uufi  tytx^  5<: 
^  ta4*«*t<4 


•  W 


Xectures  in  England  an&  Bmerfca       285 

copy  of  Curry  arid  Rice,  sent  by  the  author,  Captain 
Atkinson,  in  December,  1858:  "As  for  the  little  hint 
about  Printing  House  Square,"  he  wrote,  "I  know  the 
editor  and  most  of  the  writers,  and,  knowing,  never 
think  of  asking  a  favour  for  myself  or  any  mortal  man. 
They  are  awful  and  inscrutable,  and  a  request  for  a 
notice  might  bring  down  a  slasher  upon  you,  just  as  I 
once  had  in  the  Times  for  one  of  my  own  books 
[Esmond],  of  which  the  sale  was  absolutely  stopped  by 
a  Times  article. ' ' 

But  even  a  thunderbolt  from  the  "awful  and  inscru- 
table" Jupiter  could  only  check  the  sale  of  the  book  for 
the  moment.  Esmond  was  bound  to  take  its  place,  not 
only  as  Thackeray's  masterpiece,  but  as  a  book  to  be 
ranked  among  the  greatest  works  of  historical  fiction  of 
any  age  or  country. 

"It  is  a  dull,  tiresome,  well-written  book.  You'll 
find  it  dull,  but  it  is  founded  on  family  papers"; 
"Esmond  is  as  stately  as  Sir  Charles  Grandison"  ;  "The 
hero  is  a  prig' ' ; — were  some  remarks  passed  by  the 
author  upon  his  greatest  work;*  and  writing  from 
America  to  Mrs.  Procter,  he  declared  that  the  success  of 
the  book  had  quite  surprised  him,  for  he  had  only  looked 
for  a  few  to  like  it.  I  think,  however,  his  real  opinion 

*He  had  a  habit  of  passing  criticisms  upon  his  books — for  all  the 
world  as  if  he  had  not  written  them — and  many  remarks  like  the  fol- 
lowing dropped  from  his  mouth,  and  are  to  be  found  scattered  about 
his  correspondence.  "  I  have  just  read  such  a  stupid  part  of  Pen- 
•dennis;  but  how  well  written  it  is."  "  I  can't  say  I  think  much  of 
Pendennis — at  least,  of  the  execution,"  he  said  to  Mr.  J.  E.  Cooke; 
"it  certainly  drags  about  the  middle;  but  I  had  an  attack  of  illness  at 
the  time  I  reached  that  part  of  the  book,  and  could  not  make  it  any 
better  than  I  did."  "I  bought  the  Kickleburys,  Rebecca  and Rowena, 
and  the  Rhine  Story,  and  read  them  through  with  immense  pleasure. 
Do  you  know  I  think  all  three  capital,  and  R.  &->  R.  not  only  made 
me  laugh,  but  the  other  thing."  "  I  have  been  reading  The  Hoggarty 
Diamond  this  morning;  upon  my  word  and  honour  if  it  doesn't  make 
you  cry,  I  shall  have  a  mean  opinion  of  you." 


286         TKntllfam  /iDafeepeace 

was  expressed  to  Mr.  Fields,  when  the  publisher,  in 
1852,  met  him  in  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  with  the 
three  volumes  of  Esmond  tucked  under  his  arm.  "Here 
is  the  very  best  I  can  do,"  he  said;  "and  I  am  carrying 
it  to  Prescott  as  a  reward  of  merit  for  having  given  me 
my  first  dinner  in  America.  I  stand  by  this  book,  and 
am  willing  to  leave  it,  where  I  go,  as  my  card." 

Meanwhile  the  lectures  were  being  delivered  in  the 
provinces,  and  they  were,  as  a  general  rule,  as  much 
appreciated  in  the  country  as  in  the  capital.  At  Oxford 
(where  he  stayed  with  his  old  friend  Stoddart)  the  read- 
ings were  worth  thirty  pounds  apiece  ;*  and  Cambridge 
showed  itself  nearly  as  appreciative  as  the  sister  univer- 
sity. At  Edinburgh,  too,  they  were  a  great  success — a 
hundred  subscribers  and  two  hundred  other  people  for 
the  first  lecture.  The  following,  from  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  is  noteworthy:  "The  best  of  his  lectures  is,  we 
think,  that  on  Fielding;  and  we  are  delighted  to  read 
Mr.  Thackeray's  bold  and  cordial  and  discriminating 
praise  of  this  great,  but,  we  fear,  somewhat  neglected, 
artist — a  novelist  from  whom  the  generation  that  is  now 

*At  Oxford  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  the  license  of  the  'Varsity 
authorities  before  lecturing  within  the  precincts  to  the  undergradu- 
ates; and  Thackeray,  on  his  arrival  in  the  city,  applied  for  the 
necessary  permission  to  the  Vice-Chancellor,  who,  however,  was  no 
student  of  contemporary  literature,  and  was  utterly  ignorant  of  both 
Thackeray  and  his  writings.  This  is  an  account  that  has  been  handed 
down  of  the  interview.  I  cannot  vouch  for  its  authenticity:  it  is 
almost  too  good  to  be  true.  "  Pray  sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  "  My 
name  is  Thackeray."  "So  I  see  by  this  card."  "I  seek  permission 
to  lecture  within  your  precincts."  "Ah!  you  are  a  lecturer;  what 
subjects  do  you  undertake,  religious  or  political?"  "Neither;  I  am 
a  literary  man."  "Have  you  written  anything?"  "Yes;  I  am  the 
author  of  Vanity  Fair"  "  I  presume  a  dissenter — has  that  anything 
to  do  with  John  Bunyan's  book?"  "  Not  exactly.  I  have  also  written 
Pendennis.  "  Never  heard  of  these  works ;  but  no  doubt  they  are 
proper  books."  "  I  have  also  contributed  to  Punch"  "  Punch  /  I 
have  heard  of  that;  is  it  not  a  ribald  publication?"  The  account  ends 
abruptly  here — probably  at  this  point  Thackeray  showed  symptoms 
of  suffocation. 


^Lectures  in  Enolanfc  anfc  Smertca       287 

passing  away  imbibed  a  heartier  contempt  for  meanness 
and  duplicity,  and  a  heartier  sympathy  with  courage, 
frankness,  and  manliness,  than,  we  fear,  is  to  be  acquired 
from  the  more  decorous  narratives  which  form  the  men- 
tal food  of  their  successors." 

Indeed,  the  audiences  in  Edinburgh  were  so  large  and 
so  appreciative  that  the  visit  to  America,  that  by  this 
time  he  had  arranged  should  take  place  about  May,  hung 
in  the  balance.  "Why,  if  so  much  money  is  to  be  made 
in  this  empire,  not  go  through  with  the  business,  and  get 
what  is  to  be  had?"  he  asked  Mrs.  Brookfield.  But  the 
journey  was  not  abandoned.  "I  must  replace  my  patri- 
mony," he  told  his  daughters,  "and  make  some  provi- 
sion for  your  mother  and  for  you ;  and  you  must  go  to 
my  mother's  and  spend  the  winter  with  her;  you  must 
work  as  hard  as  you  can,  and  consider  yourself  at  college 
in  a  fashion,  and  learn  French,  and  a  little  music,  to  play 
me  to  sleep  of  an  evening  when  I  come  home."  Then 
he  took  them  abroad  to  his  mother  and  Major  Smyth, 
in  whose  charge  they  were  to  be  left  during  his  absence. 
At  the  railway  station  at  Otten,  in  Belgium,  they 
parted:  they  going  to  Switzerland,  he  returning  to 
England.  He  had  to  deliver  some  more  lectures,  to 
revise  Vanity  Fair  for  a  cheap  edition,  and  to  correct 
the  proofs  of  Esmond,  before  he  could  sail  for  America. 

At  the  end  of  September  he  went,  with  Mr.  Eyre 
Crowe,  to  Liverpool,  where  he  read  in  the  Athenaeum 
on  the  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays  (September  28,  30; 
October  5,  7,  12,  14);  and  to  Manchester,  in  the  Phil- 
harmonic Hall,  on  the  Wednesdays  and  Fridays  (Sep- 
tember 29;  October  I,  6,  8,  13,  15).  The  latter  part  of 
October  was  spent  in  London;  and  on  October  29  they 
again  went  to  Liverpool,  where,  on  that  evening,  the 


288         ipailliam  flDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

last  night  in  England,  they  dined  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Ratcliffe.  The  piece  de  resistance  at  the  banquet  was  a 
roasted  sucking-pig — a  surprise  for  the  great  man,  who 
loved  only  beans  and  bacon  better. 

He  was  in  a  very  despondent  frame  of  mind,  and  his 
good-byes  partook  more  of  the  nature  of  Adieu  than 
Au  revoir.  ''My  dearest  old  friend,"  he  wrote  to 
Edward  Fitzgerald  just  before  he  sailed,  "I  mustn't  go 
away  without  shaking  your  hand  and  saying  Farewell 
and  God  bless  you.  If  anything  happens  to  me,  you  by 
these  presents  must  get  ready  the  Book  of  Ballads  which 
you  like,  and  which  I  had  not  time  to  prepare  before 
embarking  on  this  voyage.  And  I  should  like  my 
daughters  to  remember  that  you  are  the  best  and  oldest 
friend  their  father  ever  had,  and  that  you  would  act  as 
such :  as  my  literary  executor  and  so  forth.  My  books 
would  yield  a  something  as  copyrights ;  and  should  any- 
thing occur,  I  have  commissioned  friends,  in  good  places, 
to  get  a  pension  for  my  poor  little  wife.  .  .  .  Does 
not  this  sound  gloomily?  Well,  who  knows  what  fate  is 
in  store;  and  I  feel  not  at  all  downcast,  but  very  grave 
and  solemn,  just  at  the  brink  of  the  great  voyage.  The 
greatest  comfort  I  have  in  thinking  about  my  dear  old 
boy  is  that  recollection  of  our  youth  when  we  loved  each 
other  as  I  do  now,  when  I  write  Farewell!" 

On  the  next  morning  (October  30,  1852)  Thackeray 
and  Eyre  Crowe,  with  their  fellow-travellers,  Lowell, 
just  returning  from  Italy,  and  Arthur  Hugh  Clough, 
the  poet,  embarked  on  the  R.M.S.  Canada  (Captain 
Lang).  The  proofs  of  Esmond  had  taken  much  longer 
to  correct  than  had  been  expected,  for  the  original  edi- 
tion was  printed  in  the  almost  obsolete  type  of  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne,  and  only  a  very  small  quantity  of  it 


OLectures  in  England  ant>  Hmerica       289 

could  be  obtained.  Some  time,  too,  the  manuscript  of 
the  third  volume  was  mislaid  at  the  publishers',  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  novelist  would  have  to  postpone  his 
journey  for  at  least  six  weeks  while  he  rewrote  it.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  only  received  his  bound  copies  of 
the  book  while  he  was  on  the  pier,  waiting  for  the  tender 
to  convey  him  to  the  Canada* 

While  lecturing  in  Liverpool,  Thackeray  had  seen,  in 
a  New  York  paper,  an  article  containing  a  bitter  attack 
on  him.  It  was,  indeed,  very  doubtful  what  reception 
he  would  meet  with  from  the  Americans,  for  they  were 
still  smarting  under  the  castigation  inflicted  by  Boz  in 
the  American  Notes;  and  not  unnaturally  they  said  of 
Thackeray,  as  they  thought  of  the  Dickens  Ball  at  the 
Park  Theatre  and  the  "Boz"  Tableaux  given  in  honour 
of  his  great  contemporary:  "He'll  come  and  humbug 
us,  eat  our  dinners,  pocket  our  money,  and  go  home, 
and  abuse  us  like  Dickens."  However,  it  was  decided 
to  give  him  fair-play,  and  within  a  few  days  of  his  arrival 
he  had  changed  fair-play  into  enthusiasm.  "The  popu- 
lar Thackeray-theory  before  his  arrival  was  of  a  severe 
satirist  who  concealed  scalpels  in  his  sleeves  and  carried 
probes  in  his  waistcoat  pocket ;  a  wearer  of  masks ;  a 
scoffer  and  sneerer  and  general  infidel  of  all  high  aim  and 

*"  Thackeray's  Esmond  had  recently  appeared  and  taken  the 
world  by  storm,  when,  one  evening  in  November,  1852,  a  red-faced, 
mulberry-nosed,  pot-bellied  person  clad  in  a  shabby  clerical  suit,  his 
coat  fastened  with  pins  in  lieu  of  buttons,  entered  the  shop,  and,  after 
introducing  himself,  ....  drew  from  his  tail-pocket  a  copy  of  Mr. 
Ralph  Cudworth's  sermon  preached  before  the  House  of  Commons 
on  March  31,  1847,  and  mentioned  in  chapter  vi.  of  Esmond.  Our 
visitor,  so  he  told  us,  had  unearthed  the  sermon  in  Trinity  College 
Library,  and  had  called  the  novelist's  attention  to  it.  The  venture 
was  a  failure,  scarcely  any  copies  of  the  reprint  being  sold.  .  .  . 
The  book  was  printed  by  Bradbury  &  Evans  for  J.  Talboys  Wheeler, 
Bookseller,  over  against  Trinity  College  gateway,  Cambridge,  and 
has  a  dedication  to  Thackeray  signed  by  James  Broden." — Some 
Reminiscences  of  Books  and  Men,  Publishers  Circular,  June  12,  1897. 


290         William  jflDafeepeace  Ubacfeeras 

noble  character,"  said  a  writer  in  Putnam's  Monthly 
Magazine  for  June,  1853.  "Certainly  we  are  justified 
in  saying  that  his  presence  among  us  quite  corrected  this 
idea.  We  welcomed  a  friendly,  genial  man ;  not  at  all 
convinced  that  speech  is  heaven's  first  law,  but  willing 
to  be  silent  when  there  was  nothing  to  say — who  decid- 
edly refused  to  be  lionised,  not  by  sulking,  but  by  step- 
ping off  the  pedestal  and  challenging  the  common 
sympathies  of  all  he  met.  .  .  .  We  conceive  .  .  . 
the  chief  merit  of  Thackeray's  visit  to  be  that  he  con- 
vinced us  of  his  intellectual  integrity,  he  showed  us  how 
impossible  it  is  for  him  to  see  the  world  and  describe  it 
other  than  he  does.  He  does  not  profess  cynicism,  nor 
satirise  society  with  malice.  There  is  no  man  more 
humble,  none  more  simple,  and  his  interests  are  human 
and  concrete,  not  abstract." 

If  the  Americans  were  delighted  with  Thackeray,  he 
in  his  turn  was  agreeably  astonished  at  what  he  saw  in 
the  New  World,  and  his  letters  are  full  of  expressions  of 
pleasure.  "I  didn't  expect  to  like  the  people  as  I  do, 
but  am  agreeably  disappointed,  and  find  many  most 
pleasant  companions,  natural  and  good ;  natural  and 
well-read :  and  well-bred  too."  "Now  I  have  seen  three 
great  cities,  Boston,  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  I 
think  I  like  them  all  mighty  well."  "At  Boston  there 
is  a  very  good  literary  company  indeed."  "Now  what 
most  impresses  me  here  is  that  I  find  homes  as  pure  as 
ours,  firesides  like  ours,  domestic  virtues  as  gentle;  the 
English  language,  though  the  accent  be  a  little  different, 
with  its  home-like  melody;  and  the  Common  Prayer 
Book  in  your  families.  I  am  more  struck  by  pleasant 
resemblances  than  by  anything  else,"  etc.,  etc. 

"The  passage  is  nothing  now  it  is  over,"  Thackeray 


^Lectures  in  England  anO  Hmerica       291 

declared  on  his  arrival,  when  he  was  met  by  Mr.  Fields. 
He  remained  in  New  York  for  a  week.  Here  one  even- 
ing he  heard  Bancroft,  the  historian,  lecture  before  the 
New  York  Historical  Society,  and  on  another  was  initi- 
ated into  the  mysteries  of  spirit-rapping  and  table-turn- 
ing. He  met  Horace  Greeley,  the  proprietor  of  the 
New  York  Daily  Tribune,  and  in  the  columns  of  that 
paper  was  welcomed  to  the  States  by  Henry  James,  the 
father  of  the  distinguished  novelist,  who,  among  his 
English-speaking  contemporaries,  ranks  only  after  George 
Meredith  and  the  author  of  Lorna  Doone.  Everywhere 
and  by  every  one  he  was  f$ted  and  made  much  of;  and 
lunches,  dinners,  and  suppers  in  his  honour  were  so 
numerous  that  he  afterwards  laughingly  spoke  of  his  visit 
as  "one  unbroken  round  of  indigestion."  All  the  busi- 
ness arrangements  for  his  lecturing  had  been  made  as  far 
as  possible  without  troubling  him  with  any  of  the 
details.  He  went  to  Boston,  where  the  campaign  was 
to  be  opened.  "He  arrived  on  a  frosty  November  even- 
ing," Mr.  Fields  has  recorded,  "and  I  remember  .  .  . 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  hailed  the  announcement 
that  dinner  would  soon  be  ready  ...  In  London 
he  had  been  very  curious  in  his  inquiries  about  American 
oysters,  as  marvellous  stories,  which  he  did  not  believe, 
had  been  told  him  of  their  great  size.  We  apologised — 
although  we  had  taken  care  that  the  largest  specimen  to 
be  procured  should  startle  his  unwonted  vision  when  he 
came  up  to  the  table — for  what  we  called  the  extreme 
smallness  of  the  oysters,  promising  that  we  would  do 
better  next  time.  Six  bloated  Falstaffian  bivalves  lay 
before  him  in  their  shells.  I  noticed  he  gazed  at  them 
anxiously  with  fork  upraised ;  then  he  whispered  to  me, 
with  a  look  of  anguish,  'How  shall  I  do  it?'  I  described 


292         William  /iDafeepeace 

to  him  the  simple  process  by  which  the  free-born  citizens 
of  America  were  accustomed  to  accomplish  such  a  task. 
He  seemed  satisfied  that  the  thing  was  feasible,  select- 
ed the  smallest  one  in  the  half-dozen  (rejecting  a  large 
one,  'because,'  he  said,  'it  resembled  the  High  Priest's 
servant's  ear  that  Peter  cut  off'),  and  then  bowed  his 
head  as  if  he  were  saying  grace.  All  eyes  were  upon 
him  to  watch  the  effect  of  a  new  sensation  in  the  person 
of  a  great  British  Author.  Opening  his  mouth  very 
wide,  he  struggled  for  a  minute,  and  then  all  was  over. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  comic  look  of  despair  he  cast 
upon  the  other  five  over-occupied  shells.  I  broke  the 
perfect  stillness  by  asking  him  how  he  felt.  '  Profoundly 
grateful,'  he  gasped,  'and  as  if  I  had  swallowed  a  little 
baby.'  " 

The  first  lecture  took  place  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  November  19,  before  an  audience  of  twelve 
hundred  people,  amongst  whom  was  George  Ticknor, 
the  historian  of  Spanish  literature;  the  others  following 
on  November  22,  26,  29,  and  December  3,  6.  These 
were  so  well  attended — indeed,  all  the  tickets  were  sold 
before  his  arrival — that  another  course  was  delivered  on 
December  I,  7,  10,  13,  15,  and  17,  which  also  met  with 
great  success.  One  of  his  Boston  auditors  gave  a  good 
pen-and-ink  sketch  of  the  lecturer.  "He  is  a  stout, 
healthful,  broad-shouldered  specimen  of  a  man,  with 
cropped  greyish  hair  and  bluish-grey  eyes,  peering  very 
strongly  through  a  pair  of  spectacles  that  have  a  very 
satiric  focus.  He  seems  to  stand  strongly  on  his  own 
feet,  as  if  he  would  not  be  very  easily  blown  about  or 
upset  either  by  praise  or  pugilists — a  man  who  scents  all 
shams  or  rumours,  straightening  them  between  his 
thumb  and  finger  as  he  would  a  pinch  of  snuff." 


Xectures  in  Enalat^  anfc  Hmerica       293 

From  Boston  he  returned  to  New  York — on  the  cars 
"a  rosy-cheeked  little  peripatetic  book-merchant,"  igno- 
rant of  his  customer's  identity,  sold  him  a  copy  of  A 
Shabby  Genteel  Story — where  Mr.  Millard  Felt,  repre- 
senting The  Mercantile  Library  Association,  took  him 
over  the  Rev.  Mr.  Chapin's  Unitarian  Chapel,  from 
which  the  Rev.  Henry  Bellows  had  just  retired.  He 
was  to  read  from  the  pulpit,  and  expressed  some  anxiety 
until  he  was  assured  that  the  organ  would  not  play  him 
in. 

"The  building  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity 
with  the  celebrities  of  literature  and  fashion  in  this 
metropolis,  all  of  whom,  we  believe,  left  perfectly  united 
in  the  opinion  that  they  never  remembered  to  have 
spent  an  hour  more  delightfully  in  their  lives,  and  that 
the  room  in  which  they  had  been  receiving  so  much 
enjoyment  was  very  badly  lighted.  We  fear,  also,  that 
it  is  the  impression  of  the  many  who  were  disappointed 
in  getting  tickets,  that  the  room  was  not  spacious 
enough  for  the  purpose  to  which  it  has  been  appropri- 
ated. Every  one  who  saw  Mr.  Thackeray  last  evening 
for  the  first  time  seemed  to  have  their  impressions  of  his 
appearance  and  manner  of  speech  corrected.  Few 
expected  to  see  so  large  a  man :  he  is  gigantic,  six  feet 
four  at  least ;  few  expected  to  see  so  old  a  person :  his 
hair  appears  to  have  kept  silvery  record  over  fifty  years; 
and  then  there  was  a  notion  in  the  minds  of  many  that 
there  must  be  something  dashing  and  'fast'  in  his  appear- 
ance; whereas  his  costume  was  perfectly  plain;  the 
expression  of  his  face  grave  and  earnest;  his  address 
perfectly  unaffected,  and  such  as  we  might  expect  to 
meet  with  in  a  well-bred  man  somewhat  advanced  in 
years.  ...  In  other  words,  he  inspired  his  audi- 


294         TKHUliam  /IDafeepeace  Ubacfeerag 

ence  with  a  respect  for  him  as  a  man  proportioned  to 
the  admiration  which  his  books  have  inspired  for  him  as 
an  author. 

"Of  the  lecture  itself  as  a  work  of  art,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  speak  too  strongly.  Though  written  with 
the  utmost  simplicity  and  apparent  inattention  to  effects, 
it  overflowed  with  every  characteristic  of  the  author's 
happiest  vein."  So  ran  a  report  of  the  "Swift"  Lecture 
in  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  which  paper  Thackeray 
himself  sent  to  friends  in  England. 

He  was  tasting  the  fruits  of  his  great  popularity,  and 
he  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself.  "I  remember,"  Mr. 
Fields  has  recorded  of  the  first  reading  at  Boston,  "his 
uproarious  shouting  and  dancing  when  he  was  told  that 
the  tickets  to  his  first  course  of  lectures  were  all  sold ; 
and  when  we  rode  together  from  his  hotel  to  the  lecture- 
hall,  he  insisted  on  thrusting  both  his  long  legs  out  of 
the  carriage  window,  in  deference,  as  he  said,  to  his 
magnanimous  ticket-holders." 

"By  Jove,  how  kind  you  all  were  to  me,"  he  said  to 
Mr.  Reed.  "I  suppose  I  am  none  the  worse  pleased," 
he  wrote  from  New  York,  "because  everybody  has  read 
all  my  books  and  praises  my  lectures.  .  .  .  There 
are  two  thousand  people  nearly  who  come,  and  the  lec- 
tures are  so  well  liked  that  it  is  probable  I  shall  do  them 
over  again.  So  really  there  is  a  chance  of  making  a 
pretty  sum  of  money  for  old  age,  imbecility,  and  those 
young  ladies  afterwards."* 

He  repeated  the  lectures  in  New  York,  and  read  them 

*By  the  New  York  lectures  he  made  no  less  than  a  thousand 
pounds,  which  Barings  invested  for  the  young  ladies.  Of  the  profits 
of  the  whole  visit  I  cannot  speak  with  any  certainty.  He  himself  in 
one  of  his  letters  suggested  that  his  possible  gains  might  amount  to 
.£2,500,  but  I  think  this  is  a  very  low  estimate. 


OLectures  in  England  ant)  Bmerica       295 

in  Brooklyn.  There  he  saw  a  Beatrix  Esmond,  to 
whom  he  lost  his  heart,  he  declared,  and  met  the  great 
Barnum,  who  wanted  him  to  write  something  in  the 
first  number  of  an  illustrated  paper  in  imitation  of  the 
London  News,  which  was  just  about  to  make  its  appear- 
ance under  his  wing.  It  must  have  been  a  curious 
interview,  that  one  between  the  Prince  of  Anti-Hum- 
bugs, and  the  Prince  of  Humbugs. 

From  Brooklyn  he  went  to  Washington  for  three 
weeks,  where  he  stayed  with  Mr.  (afterwards,  Sir  Philip) 
Crampton  at  the  British  Embassy,  and  there  he  met 
Senator  G.  T.  Davis,  whose  son,  Secretary  of  the  Amer- 
ican Minister  in  London,  was  an  old  friend.  Longfellow 
on  Christmas  Eve  heard  the  "Congreve"  lecture,  and 
four  days  later  supped  with  the  lecturer  at  Lowell's 
house.  "The  time  here  has  been  very  pleasant," 
Thackeray  wrote  to  his  mother.  "I  dined  with  the 
President  [Mr.  Fillmore]  on  Thursday,  and  yesterday 
he  and  the  President  Elect  [General  Pierce]  came  arm- 
in-arm  to  my  lecture!"  "Two  Kings  of  Brentford 
smiling  at  one  rose,"  Washington  Irving  (popularly 
known  as  "Old  Knick"  from  an  early  work,  The  History 
of  New  York,  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker)  murmured  to 
Thackeray  as  they  appeared ;  and  surely  lecturing  before 
two  Presidents  is  only  one  degree  less  pleasing  in  its 
intensity  than  to  be  seen  walking  arm-in-arm  with  a 
couple  of  Dukes  down  Pall  Mall. 

From  Philadelphia  he  addressed  a  characteristic  letter 
to  Mrs.  Brookfield.  ' '  The  lectures  are  enormously  suive'es, 
and  I  read  at  the  rate  of  a  pound  a  minute  nearly," 
he  wrote.  "The  curious  thing  is  that  I  think  I  improve 
in  my  reading;  at  certain  passages  a  sort  of  emotion 
springs  up,  and  I  begin  to  understand  how  actors  feel 


296         William  flDafcepeace 

affected  over  and  over  again  at  the  same  passages  of  the 
play; — they  are  affected  off  the  stage  too:  I  hope  I 
shan't  be.  .  .  .  There's  something  simple  about  the 
way  the  kind  folks  regard  a  man ;  they  read  our  books 
as  if  we  were  Fielding,  and  so  forth.  The  other  night 
some  men  were  talking  of  Dickens  and  Bulwer,  and  I 
was  pleased  to  find  myself  pleased  at  hearing  them 
praised." 

In  this  same  letter  we  get  a  glimpse  at  his  plans  for 
the  future.  The  second  course  of  lectures  and  the  ambi- 
tion in  public  life  were  realised  respectively  in  the  Four 
Georges  and  the  Oxford  election,  and  the  man,  weary 
and  "played  out"  as  he  was,  yet  managed  to  produce, 
besides  other  things,  The  Newcomes,  Philip,  the  fragment 
of  Denis  Duval,  and  above  all  The  Roundabout  Papers. 

"At  present,"  runs  this  part  of  the  letter,  "I  incline 
to  come  to  England  in  June  or  July,  and  get  ready  a 
new  set  of  lectures  and  bring  them  back  with  me.  That 
second  course  will  enable  me  to  provide  for  the  children 
and  their  mother  finally  and  satisfactorily,  and  my  mind 
will  be  easier  after  that,  and  I  can  sing  Nunc  Dimittis 
without  faltering.  There  is  money-making  to  try  at,  to 
be  sure,  and  ambition,  I  mean  in  public  life;  perhaps 
that  might  interest  a  man,  but  not  novels,  nor  lectures, 
nor  fun  any  more.  I  don't  seem  to  care  about  these 
any  more,  or  for  praise,  or  for  abuse,  or  for  reputation 
of  that  kind.  That  literary  play  is  played  out  and  the 
puppets  going  to  be  locked  up  for  good  and  all.  Does 
this  melancholy  come  from  the  circumstance  that  I  have 
been  out  to  dinner  and  supper  every  night  this  week? 
Oh !  I  am  tired  of  shaking  hands  with  people,  and  acting 
the  lion  business  night  after  night.  Every  one  is  intro- 
duced and  shakes  hands.  I  know  thousands  of  colonels, 


Xectures  In  Enolanfc  anfc  Bmerica       297 

professors,  editors,  and  what  not,  and  walk  the  streets 
guiltily,  knowing  that  I  don't  know  'em,  and  trembling 
lest  the  man  opposite  is  one  of  my  friends  of  the  day 
before.  I  believe  I  am  popular,  except  at  Boston  among 
the  newspaper  men  who  fired  into  me,  but  a  great 
favourite  with  the  monde  here  and  elsewhere." 

From  Philadelphia  he  returned  to  New  York,  where, 
to  oblige  some  friends  interested  in  a  "Ladies'  Society 
for  the  Employment  and  Relief  of  the  Poor,"  he  espe- 
cially composed,  and  delivered  on  January  31,  at  the 
Church  of  the  Messiah,  in  Broadway,  before  an  audience 
of  about  twelve  hundred  persons  paying  one  dollar  each, 
the  Charity  and  Humour  discourse.  This  serves  as  a 
supplement  to  the  Humourist  series,  for  in  it  he  compared 
the  eighteenth-century  literature  with  the  writings  of  his 
contemporaries,  taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
bestow  his  usual  praise  upon  Dickens. 

At  this  time  all  New  York  was  talking  of  the  article 
in  the  January  number  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  entitled 
Mr.  Thackeray  and  the  United  States  (by  John  Small},  a 
playful  and  amusing  satire  on  the  American  newspapers 
and  their  habits  of  personal  journalism,  in  which  was 
given  a  long  extract  from  an  imaginary  paper,  The 
Sachem  and  Broadway  Delineator,  caricaturing  the  per- 
sonal paragraphs  that  were  being  circulated  about  the 
lecturer.  Although  the  article  was  not  published  over 
his  signature,  it  was  immediately  recognised  as  his  work. 
It  was  found  as  amusing  in  America  as  at  home ;  and  if, 
while  reading  it,  some  hyper-sensitive  persons  felt  a 
touch  of  annoyance,  it  must  have  been  removed  when 
the  last  page  of  the  article  was  reached,  for  Thackeray 
had  written  there  the  tribute  conceded  to  America  at 
the  last  lecture  of  the  first  series  on  December  7. 


298         Militant  /iDafeepeace 

"In  England  it  was  my  custom,  after  the  delivery  of 
these  lectures,"  he  had  said,  "to  point  such  a  moral  as 
seemed  to  befit  the  country  I  lived  in  and  to  protest 
against  an  outcry,  which  some  brother  authors  of  mine 
had  most  imprudently  and  unjustly  raised,  when  they 
say  that  our  profession  is  neglected,  and  its  professors 
held  in  light  esteem.  Speaking  in  this  country,  I  would 
say  that  not  only  could  such  a  complaint  not  be  advanced, 
but  could  not  even  be  understood  here,  where  your  men 
of  letters  take  a  manly  share  in  public  life;  whence 
Everett  goes  as  Minister  to  Washington,  and  Irving  and 
Bancroft  to  represent  the  republic  in  the  Old  Country. 
And  if  to  English  authors,  the  English  public  is,  as  I 
believe,  kind  and  just  in  the  main,  will  any  of  us  say, 
will  any  who  visit  your  country  not  proudly  and  grate- 
fully own,  with  what  a  cordial  and  generous  greeting 
you  receive  us?  I  look  round  on  this  great  company, 
I  think  of  my  gallant  young  patrons  of  the  Mercantile 
Literary  Association,  as  whose  servant  I  appear  before 
you,  and  of  the  kind  hands  stretched  out  to  welcome  me 
by  men  famous  in  letters,  and  honoured  in  our  country 
as  in  their  own,  and  I  thank  you  and  them  for  a  most 
kindly  greeting  and  a  most  generous  hospitality.  At 
home,  and  amongst  his  own  people,  it  scarce  becomes  an 
English  writer  to  speak  of  himself;  his  public  estimation 
must  depend  upon  his  works,  his  private  esteem  upon 
his  character  and  his  life.  But  here,  among  friends 
newly  found,  I  ask  leave  to  say  that  I  am  thankful ;  and 
I  think  with  a  grateful  heart  of  those  I  leave  behind  me 
at  home,  who  will  be  proud  of  the  welcome  you  hold  out 
to  me,  and  will  benefit,  please  God,  when  my  days  of 
work  are  over,  by  the  kindness  you  have  shown  to  their 
father." 


OLectures  in  EnQlanfc  an&  Hmerfca       299 

And  not  content  with  the  above  manifestation  of 
feeling,  he  had  also  seized  the  opportunity  to  declare 
his  gratitude  by  declaring  in  the  preface  to  Appleton's 
edition  of  his  minor  works  that  "he  was  glad  to  think 
his  books  had  found  favour  with  the  American  public, 
as  he  was  proud  to  own  the  great  and  cordial  welcome 
with  which  they  received  him."* 

After  Boston,  New  York,  and  Washington,  he  also 
visited,  among  other  places,  Baltimore  and  Richmond, 
Virginia;  Petersburg,  where  very  few  seats  were  occu- 
pied ;  Charleston,  where  he  arrived  early  in  March,  and 
read  in  the  Hiberian  Hall  to  large  audiences,  the  most 
notable  person  being  Professor  Agassiz,  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  made ;  and  Savannah,  in  Georgia,  where  he  was 
the  guest  of  Mr.  Low,  the  English  Consul.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  Clarendon  Hotel  in  New  York,  where  he 
heard  of  the  failing  health  of  some  of  the  elder  members 
of  his  family  in  Europe. 

Long  before  the  tour  was  over  he  was  heartily  sick 
of  it,  and  nothing  but  the  thoughts  of  his  children 
would  have  strengthened  him  sufficiently  to  enable  him 
to  continue  it.  ' '  Even  when  I  am  reading  my  lectures, " 
he  one  day  exclaimed  to  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  "I  often 
think  to  myself,  'What  a  humbug  you  are,  and  I  wonder 
people  don't  find  you  out';"  and  writing  home  on  Feb- 
ruary 7  he  said,  "In  another  hour  that  dreary  business  of 
'In  speaking  of  the  English  Humourists  of  the  last,'  etc., 
will  begin — and  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  the  speaker  once 
in  the  desk  (to-day  it  is  to  be  a  right-down  pulpit  in  a 
Universalist  Church  and  no  mistake),  gets  interested  in 
the  work,  makes  the  points,  throbs  with  emotion,  and 
indignation,  at  the  right  place,  and  has  a  little  sensation 

*See  Appendix. 


300         Hdilliam  flDaftepeace 

while  the  work  is  coming  on;  but  I  can't  go  on  much 
longer,  my  conscience  revolts  at  the  quackery."  "I 
am  getting  so  sick  and  ashamed  of  the  confounded  old 
lectures  that  I  wonder  I  have  the  courage  to  go  on 
delivering  them,"  he  wrote  from  Richmond  a  month 
later.  "I  shan't  read  a  single  review  of  them  when  they 
are  published;  anything  savage  said  about  them  will 
serve  them  right.  ...  I  should  like  to  give  myself 
a  week's  holiday  without  my  dem'd  lecture-box." 

In  an  interesting  and  characteristic  letter,  dated  Clar- 
endon Hotel,  New  York,  April  5,  1853,  Thackeray 
summed  up  his  impressions  of  America  in  his  character- 
istically straightforward  fashion.  He  noted  that  My 
Novel  and  Villette  had  rapidly  transplanted  Esmond  in 
popular  favour;  and  added  that  though  he  had  not  mad« 
a  fortune  in  four  months,  he  had  "a  snug  little  sum  of 
money."  He  was  not  horrified  with  the  slavery  of  the 
South,  but  thought  the  negroes  "in  the  good  families 
the  comfortablest  race  of  menials."  Of  American  scen- 
ery he  was  far  from  enamoured.  "It  is  a  dreary, 
unpicturesque  country  for  the  most  part.  I  have  not 
seen  a  dozen  picturesque  views  in  all  my  wanderings,  nor 
even  cared  to  use  my  pencil  except  to  sketch  a  negro  or 
two." 

He  longed  to  shut  up  his  reading  desk  and  get  back 
to  the  Old  Country,  though  he  gratefully  acknowledged 
the  kindness  of  the  Americans,  and  spoke  of  the  many 
true  friends  he  had  made.  The  luxury  of  New  York  and 
the  gorgeous  dresses  of  the  ladies  seem  to  have  some- 
what appalled  him.  "Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  or  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  when  she  came  to  visit  him  in  state,  was 
not  arrayed  so  magnificently  as  these  New  York  damsels. " 

When   Mr.    Crowe   entered  Thackeray's  room,  very 


Xectures  in  En0lant>  an&  Hmerfca       s01 

early  in  the  morning  of  April  20,  1853,  tne  latter,  who 
had  been  consulting  a  newspaper,  jumped  up,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  earlier  intention  to  visit  several  cities  in  the 
middle  and  western  states,  said:  "I  see  there's  a 
Cunarder  going  this  morning.  I'll  go  down  to  Wall 
Street  to  see  whether  I  can  secure  berths  in  her."  His 
quest  was  successful.  He  scribbled  on  a  card:  "Good- 
bye, Fields;  good-bye,  Mrs.  Fields;  God  bless  every- 
body, says  W.  M.  T." — there  was  no  time  for  personal 
farewells — hurried  down  Broadway,  got  into  a  boat  on 
the  East  River,  reached  the  Europa  to  be  greeted  with 
the  cry,  "Hurry  up — she's  starting!"  and  landed  with 
Mr.  Crowe  at  Liverpool  almost  exactly  six  months  after 
their  departure. 

The  story  of  his  arrival  at  his  house  has  been  charm- 
ingly told  by  his  eldest  daughter  in  the  following  words : 
"When  the  long  summer  and  winter  were  over,  and  the 
still  longer  spring,  suddenly  one  day  we  heard  he  was 
coming  back  much  sooner  than  he  had  expected.  I 
believe  he  saw  a  steamer  starting  for  home  and  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  then  and  there  came  off.  .  I  can 
still  remember  sitting  with  my  grandparents,  expecting 
his  return.  My  sister  and  I  sat  on  the  red  sofa  in  the 
little  study,  and  shortly  before  the  time  we  had  calculated 
he  might  arrive  came  a  little  ring  at  the  front  door-bell. 
My  grandmother  broke  down ;  my  sister  and  I  rushed  to 
the  front  door,  only  we  were  so  afraid  that  it  might  not 
be  he  that  we  did  not  dare  to  open  it,  and  there  we 
stood  until  a  second  and  much  louder  ring  brought  us 
to  our  senses.  'Why  didn't  you  open  the  door?'  said 
my  father,  stepping  in,  looking  well,  broad,  and  upright, 
laughing.  In  a  moment  he  had  never  been  away  at  all."* 

*  Chapters  from  Some  Unwritten  Memoirs. 


END   OF   VOLUME  ONE 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


